


The Joy of Violent Movement

by gimmefire, Tasyfa



Series: Saints Universe [1]
Category: Green Day, Metallica
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Bloodplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-17
Updated: 2006-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 01:04:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmefire/pseuds/gimmefire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tasyfa/pseuds/Tasyfa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We came here…because we wanted <i>distraction</i>." Poor songwriting, bands in disarray, relationships crumbling and a desire for nothing more than alcohol, heat and an obstruction of reality – a heavy metal drummer and a punk rock frontman have far more in common than they think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The pairing that ate our brains!

"Why don't you answer me, huh?"  
  
Lars's vaguely demanding tone seemingly had no effect on what he was glowering at, shoulders hunched, looming like a man twice his size. He extended a finger and prodded it insistently.  
  
"Huh? C'mon, cocky motherfucker, let's hear it."  
  
It was terrifying, really. Though it probably would have had more effect if his eyes were so heavy-lidded and glazed. Or if he wasn't actually five-foot-fuck-all, or so it felt sometimes. Or if he wasn't talking to a goddamn two-thirds empty beer bottle. _Fandens._  
  
He snorted with as much cruel derision as possible, and settled for relieving the obnoxious object of its contents, downing the piss-weak liquid and glaring darkly at the bartender who gave him a look.  
  
 _This is such fuckin' bullshit,_ he thought. _How dare he. How dare_ they _, both of them. Not a fuckin' thought for what we've worked so damn hard for, for twenty years, just upping sticks and going. Jason can do whatever the fuck he wants, I'm past caring anymore. But James….selfish cunt, he didn't even…he doesn't even wanna talk to me. What the fuck is that? I thought we…I thought there was something. We…ugh. So much for that shit. Asshole._  
  
Yeah, he was still frustrated, still angry. Real fucking sore about all of this. But it was getting to the point now where the anger was dripping away to leave nothing but hopeless resignation. Hopeless resignation, coupled with this black void of uncertainty, was swallowing him up. Especially after that fucking Echobrain gig. He kinda wished he never agreed to go. To see a band so cohesive as a unit, so solid live, so focused in their intentions...it made Metallica, the biggest heavy metal band of all time, look like a fucking joke. Hell, what was there to his band anymore?  
  
No Jason, he left nine months ago and didn't look back.  
  
No James, MIA for three months in rehab without a word…to Lars, at least.  
  
And right now, no Kirk, off at his fuckin' ranch, or surfing, or something. Shit, he didn't even know.  
  
So it was just him. The only idiot that cared anymore, it seemed.  
  
He ran a hand through his unkempt, grown-out bleach blonde hair, groaning under his breath. He couldn't count how many times he'd done that in the last week.  
  
No, all this did not sit well with Lars fucking Ulrich.  
  
He pushed the empty beer bottle forward as the bartender approached.  
  
"Hey, gimme a Jack. A double, actually." He paused, then smiled. It wasn't sincere. "Please."  
  
As the bartender turned to pour the drink, Lars sank down on his stool, settling to glower half-heartedly at the beer towel before him.  
  
 _Fuck, I wish James'd talk to me._  
  
Billie Joe wandered through the doorway, one hand still stuffed into his pocket as he let go of the door and surveyed the room. Yup, your standard bar, sparsely populated thanks to the late hour on a week night. Most people were home, doing sane, sensible, family-type things; he wasn't most people. Never had been and wasn't fucking likely to start now.  
  
No, now, all that interested Billie was a quiet corner and enough booze to drown in, until he'd left the ability to think far behind him. Who knew, maybe in losing that he'd find some fucking inspiration, some proof that he could still call himself a musician instead of an industry lackey, throwing garbage onto a record to fulfill contractual obligations.  
  
Fuck, there was some guy sitting at the bar already. That was a piss-off. His gaze swept past the lone figure in search of an empty booth, and then jerked back, actually focusing on the man hunched into his barstool.  
  
 _Solitude, boyhood hero? Solitude, boyhood hero?_ Choices. The last thing he wanted was to attempt to be sociable, especially to someone who currently looked more likely to chew on the company than say hello. But through the heavy lassitude blanketing him, Billie felt a small thrill of memory, of a time when things were simple in his life and this man's music had meant something to him. Even as he decided to leave Lars alone, his feet staged a revolt and headed for the bar.  
  
"Jack Daniels, please." Billie nodded at the bartender and snuck a glance at the obviously drunk man beside him. He didn't acknowledge the drummer, preferring to ignore the fact that a part of him wanted to talk to him in favour of the overwhelming majority that wanted to be left the hell alone. To that end, his only words for the next few minutes were the repetition of his drink order as the whisky slid down his throat, until he'd downed half a dozen shots and was ready to nurse one for a while.  
  
The sound of the door to the bar swinging open and shut just barely penetrated the thick cloud of self-absorbed, multi-directional malice Lars was swathed in. He heard footsteps approach, heard the faint creak of leather as a barstool nearby was occupied. Some dull little spark in the back of his mind visualised a hand reaching over to squeeze his shoulder, a strong hand, and a low, gravelly voice bearing a simple greeting.  
  
 _Hey, Uli._  
  
A few brief moments and nothing but his jacket and muscle shirt touched his shoulder, nothing but the low, swirling music from the jukebox reached his ears. He cursed inwardly, at nothing in particular, and looked over at whoever dared to break his…well, not concentration, but fuckdammit he was being selfish and crabby and he didn't fancy anyone encroaching on that.  
  
He blinked slowly like some lethargic owl, at first a half-assed recognition leaking into his fuzzy brain. Connections were made and he managed to put a name to a face, and his eyebrows raised. Of all the joints in all the Bay Area, huh? If only the kids could see this now.  
  
 _But then again the kids would have to be drunk deadbeats with no homes to go to. Whatever. Stupid thoughts. Shut up, brain._  
  
He watched the other man…Billie, right? Billie Joe?...brazenly for a few moments, green eyes slightly narrowed, not particularly caring if he was noticed. He sunk the remainder of his double, throat burning dully, and turned his eyes back to the bartender.  
  
"You know what? Make it a dry white wine this time."  
  
Lars spoke again as the worker lifted a glass from the rack and reached for the opened wine.  
  
"A bottle."  
  
This was met with the slightest of eyebrow raises - none of the bartender's business, after all – before a freshly uncorked bottle was placed with the glass in front of him. Hell, maybe he didn't even know exactly who the two people draining his stock were. Lars murmured his thanks and poured himself a glass with a fair amount of concentration. Out of the corner of his eye he continued to watch Billie, taking the glass and gently swirling the yellowish drink. The black-haired musician gave off a similarly damn near unfriendly demeanor to Lars himself. Thing was, Lars liked being the aggravator, the button-pusher. Just because he'd never even met the guy didn't mean he'd deviate from that.  
  
Plus, he was cranky and Phil wasn't here to tell him to express it in a healthy or constructive way. Thank fuck.  
  
 _OK. Let's see what's bunching your panties._  
  
"So," he began, not looking at Billie as he raised the glass towards his lips. "Everyone sucks except you, right?"  
  
A disbelieving snort escaped before Billie could censor it at the other musician's opening gambit. He'd felt eyes on him, piercing even in a drunken haze, and known the moment he was recognized. The strange part was that it had surprised him a little. By this time, Billie Joe had grown so used to having everyone he met already know who he was that normally, _lack_ of recognition came as a surprise. But for whatever reason, he hadn't expected Lars Ulrich to know him.  
  
Neither had he expected the man to be a randomly confrontational asshole, although the sheer quantity of alcohol the other had consumed should perhaps have been a clue. What really caught his attention was the tone: insolent; challenging. Even more than the blunt words, the insinuation was a thrown gauntlet and Billie had never mastered the art of backing down, gracefully or otherwise.  
  
He shifted on the stool, leather and wood creaking as he angled his body towards Lars and looked at him. Really looked at him, letting his eyes drift from dark-rooted hair, past a bloodshot, cloudy green gaze and a face full of stubble, all the way down the compact, black-clad body to the heavy boots. And back, deviating only to order a bottle of red wine from the bartender, who seemed glad enough to escape the need to pay attention to his more hardcore clientele for a little while. Possessed by the imp of the perverse, Billie waited until he'd taken a sip from his first glass, swirling its ruby contents idly as he finally spoke directly to the other man.  
  
"Only pussies drink white."  
  
Lars's face split with a grin, a sneering, cruel thing spreading all over his face. Not quite the response he expected, but he liked it. His peripheral vision told him he was being looked at, though he couldn't tell if it was with impudence or anger. That was until the reply came, in that weirdly pitched voice (kind of like his balls were being squeezed just a little, Lars surmised). Hello, this night could be more interesting – maybe not productive as such, but definitely interesting – than he'd thought.  
  
He sipped at his wine again, still not deigning to make eye-contact with this _sassy_ young man.  
  
"I guess that makes me an excellent pussy, then."  
  
Another sip, before he deposited the glass and swiveled around with incredibly good balance for someone of his drunken stature, finally facing Billie. Shit, he was scrawny. Vaguely untidy, dressed like a shadow, face like a ghost, fucking _big_ hazel eyes. Lars rested one arm on the bar, eyes burning through the haze, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Suddenly he leaned forward a little and grabbed his crotch, holding Billie's gaze.  
  
"Do you _want_ some pussy, Billie?"  
  
The growl skittered down Billie's spine like the forbidden offer of candy to a child. He took another sip of wine in an effort to relieve the sudden dryness in his mouth and then lowered the glass, trapped by eyes greener even than his own appeared in photos. The colour unnerved him a little; such blatant innuendo had always been accompanied by cool blue fire. Only Mike wasn't saying much of anything at all these days – not to Billie Joe, anyway. And he sure as fuck wasn't issuing invitations.  
  
He leaned back, shoulder blades resting against the back of the stool as he watched Lars, his gaze finally dropping to where one hand rested between spread thighs. The visual path seemed inevitable and his palm itched to echo the gesture, but the lucidity in the drummer's look told Billie that Lars was fucking with him just to see if he could get to him, like so many others did, and he wasn't in the mood to verbally dance around anything tonight. What he was in the mood for…well, he shied away from that, not wanting to think about it. He'd known better than to approach the other musician when he was in such a foul mood himself and still didn't know why he hadn't simply found himself a dark corner of oblivion already.  
  
Knowing it for a lie, that she'd shot him down for weeks now after a brief reunion when he'd come home from touring, Billie Joe said it anyway, anticipating that it might get the other man to leave him be. "If I'd wanted pussy, I would've stayed home with my wife."  
  
But his gaze didn't budge, glued to the contrast of pale flesh gripping black denim with a hunger he couldn't quite disguise.  
  
Lars continued to stare at Billie for a long few seconds after his reply, dark amusement bubbling inside him at all this. It was good to spar with someone different, someone whose responses he couldn't anticipate. It was a kick to see the look on Billie's face, a perverse one at that. Even more so when the other man's eyes seemed to have made like super glue and stuck fast to his crotch. Darker than that, it was a wicked thrill to be, well, _flirting_ with someone, pretty much. Sure as hell wasn't getting anything like this from Skylar.  
  
Or James.  
  
He cackled, hand remaining where it was, not wanting to break Billie's gaze.  
  
"Oh, sure, sure. There's not a straight man alive that doesn't want pussy, or a gay man that doesn't want himself some tight ass when he's miserable." His voice dropped a little, smirk growing, teeth reflecting the dull amber lighting over the bar. "As for the ones in the middle, well…it's a fuckin' _smorgasbord_ , right?" He sat back a little, reaching for his drink with his free hand and taking a long, slow sip, before replacing it and resting his arm on the back of his stool. Feeling all astute and smug, he continued. "It's clear to me, even though I can't say what about exactly, that you're fuckin' miserable. I can guess that it's about your band, because that's usually what musicians piss and moan about, something like…you don't feel like you're flexing your creative muscles enough, or you hate your bandmates, or shit isn't as sunny as it was ten years ago. Thing is, I can fuckin' _guarantee_ to you that I've got bigger problems than you and I'm just as miserable, if not more. So…"  
  
The drummer squeezed at his crotch, eyes flashing with cruel delight.  
  
"See anything you like?"  
  
Unfortunately, what his brain hadn't quite realised or admitted yet was that though his tone said 'fuck you', his eyes were beginning to say the same. Only much, much more seriously.  
  
Billie reined in the urge towards violence as Lars's words hit too close to home, resisting the one-up-manship. Mainly because his brain was slowly catching up a little and he remembered the rumours: Jason Newsted's departure and well-received new project, James Hetfield in rehab; a band on the verge of dissolution. The other man might have sounded blasé and dismissive but Billie recognized that while those were his own issues, they weren't only his, and he was honest enough with himself at least to acknowledge that some of his current misery _was_ him pissing and moaning, sure, and that that much would pass. But that was only part of what had sent him out looking for a temporary black hole to swallow him down. The rest had a great deal to do with strong, long-fingered hands that used to dance across more than bass strings.  
  
Only when he'd shoved that particular demon back into hiding did Billie Joe realise the rest of what had been said, and dull heat crept up his neck. Shit, did the entire fucking world know he was bi? _Maybe the fact that you're married but can't stop staring at his dick was a clue,_ a little voice snarked inside his head. He couldn't help replaying that rough squeeze, cock twitching in his pants at the phantom sensation. It told him that the vibe he was getting from Lars was not nearly as imaginary as he'd first thought.  
  
Billie tipped his head back and drained his glass, closing his eyes as his throat worked. He stayed still for a long moment after placing the empty wineglass on the bar, lips parted to suck in air while his mind spun in useless circles. Finally his chin lowered and he looked directly at the scruffy, worn face opposite him, steady hazel gaze colliding with foreign green that hinted at darkness and pleasure.  
  
"And what if I do?"  
  
The drummer silently watched Billie down the remainder of his red wine, watched his milky neck, his pale throat convulse around the cold, deep coloured liquid. Those lips, too, full and stained with the barest hint of red from his choice of beverage. Maybe it was the mood Lars was in, maybe the frontman had intended it, but fuck, it was dirty. Made a dark heat stir in the pit of his stomach, unfurling and spreading, and hey, did it just get hot in here? Fuck.  
  
And then there was that response.  
  
Honestly, truly, Lars hadn't expected that. Not that he was going to let that show, that was for sure. He titled his head back, eyebrow raising just a little, a kind of admiring gesture.  
 _Well, shit, now what, genius? You started this, are you gonna let him finish it?_  
  
He looked down, blinking slowly, before reaching for his own glass and polishing off his drink without any of the grace that Billie had. Then, after another thoughtful pause and he'd once again met the other man's eyes, he slipped down from his stool and sauntered over. Only stopping when Billie's knees brushed his thighs.  
  
Lars held Billie's gaze fearlessly, a mix of bristling annoyance and fiery, arrogant challenge once again swirling in his cloudy green eyes. For a couple of moments, he just looked at the frontman, just looked right in his face. Luckily the bartender was busy with another client, he didn't see this little exchange occurring, or else they'd surely be warned or separated or some kindergarten shit. After those moments, still not breaking eye contact, Lars raised his hand and picked up Billie's bottle of wine. As he turned, he leaned in just that little bit closer until warm breath cast over his cheek. He walked back and picked up his own bottle, and didn't stop. His sights had set on an empty, darkened booth along the far wall. Calmly, he deposited the bottles on the table inside and, looking over his shoulder, slipped off his leather jacket to reveal the black muscle shirt and compact but defined body beneath. He tossed the jacket into the booth, gave a messy spin on his heel and hitched himself over the armrest, flopping down onto one of the velvet seats within. One leg came up, boot resting on the edge of the table, arm resting on the raised, black denim clad thigh, he languished back against the backrest. In the shadows, he stared out at Billie once again. He never said a word. He just watched.  
  
And waited.  
  
The stare had pinned Billie Joe, holding him in place as Lars came close enough to touch. He wasn't sure if he'd wanted to slam his legs closed like a virginal schoolgirl or spread them like a whore and before he could decide, the drummer was gone, owning the moment. Billie hadn't missed the deliberate tease as Lars removed his jacket, the backwards glance not coy as it would be from a woman but a direct challenge – a continuation of that hard stare.  
  
He looked away, head tilting down thoughtfully before his gaze flicked back up to regard the man in the shadows. The seemingly casual pose dared Billie to join him, to walk over there and…well, that was the question. Heat twisted up his spine with the knowledge that he'd provoked this, taking it from the realm of superficial flirting to the possibility of more with his admission. Maybe not the smartest move, considering that they were both on the bitchy side tonight, but as he rose from the barstool and snagged the empty wineglasses in one hand, he really didn't give a fuck if it was smart. It was different and interesting and new, and whoever Lars might truly be, he didn't have haunting blue eyes.  
  
Billie licked his lips, tasting wine, and headed for the booth.  
  
That shit-eating smirk pulled at the corner of Lars's mouth again as he watched Billie approach. _That's right, come here, boy. You know you fuckin' want it,_ I _know you fuckin' want it. But I'm not letting you have it without a fight._ Dear fuck, it felt good to be the one in control for once, even if it was only for a few moments. It was more than he'd had in a long fucking time.  
  
He snorted at the sight of the glasses in Billie's hand, choosing instead to swig directly from the bottle. There was no need for airs and graces here, not now. Not in this dive of a place, not when there were no cameras, or fans, or reporters, or family, or friends. Not when the only person who'll see it barely knows you, but knows what it's like to be famous, and probably couldn't give a shit if you poured your drink into your mouth from a great height or used a straw. This was the one time, the one place, the one person where _none_ of this shit mattered. At all.  
  
None of it. Huh. That felt weird.  
  
The press, the fans, James, Skylar, Kirk…at one time or another they'd all given him that disapproving fucking holier-than-thou look about something. Trivial or not, Lars despised it. He despised being told what to do, always had done. _Especially_ by James. Right now, the old James was sitting in the back of his mind giving The Look, telling him not to even have a conversation with Billie.  
  
 _This shit is private, what we're all going through. No-one else needs to know. I don't even want to know what you're going through, that's the way it's always been and that's fine. We'll deal with it and fix it in our own way. There's no problem. Fuck intimacy, we don't need that. We're a band, not a fucking help clinic. This shit is personal and private and no fucker else is gonna know about it, right?_  
  
Lars scowled.  
  
 _Fuck you, James._  
  
He wanted to talk. He liked Phil's ideas. Sure, it'd be hard and uncomfortable, but it'd work eventually. But he wanted to talk right now. Not to his band, not to a fucking shrink, to someone real. Or real in the closest sense possible in terms of being famous. Like this guy. Like Billie. Compare scars, share war stories, piss and moan together, whatever. He didn't care. He wanted intimacy, any kind he could get, even just for one night.  
  
But, Lars being Lars, he could never exactly put it nicely. He eyed Billie.  
  
"So what the fuck _is_ wrong with you, then?"  
  
He hadn't even sat down when the question was flung at him and the moody, almost petulant tone it arrived in made Billie laugh, his stomach loosening. He noted the way Lars's mouth wrapped around the wine bottle in another defiant swig and dropped the glasses on the table, not caring if they were used or not. Billie took a healthy gulp from his own bottle and leaned back into the padded velvet booth.  
  
"I thought you had it all figured out, dude. Shit with band mates, no creative muscle, no sunshine up my ass anymore. Wasn't that the gist of it?"  
  
He laughed again and settled into a wide smile. How fucked up was he that with one real question instead of assumptions – however valid – this snarling aggression suddenly had him comfortable? Too many years of screwy communication with Mike and Tré, of wallowing in his own attitude and learning how to filter words through it, he supposed. That kind of shit leaves a mark.  
  
Billie loosened his tie and squirmed into a comfortable sprawl, and watched Lars lift the bottle again, his smile not wavering even with the spurt of desire that accompanied the sight. That could wait; fuck, it wasn't like he'd been expecting anything to happen when he'd gone looking for an empty bar in the first place. The drummer's abrupt shifts suggested that something else was going on, and he was curious enough to find out what. Contrary to popular opinion, Billie Joe could be a very patient man indeed…when he wanted to be.  
  
He offered a serious answer, if not a complete one. "We're just a few weeks past finishing a tour. It's always an adjustment, you know? Family, and all that." He debated for a moment, inexplicably nervous, then added, "And sometimes things get real tense when you're still on the road, and it doesn't go away when you're not, when it always did before."  
  
"Good to know I'm perceptive about something," Lars muttered dryly. Though he couldn't understand why the blistering fuck Billie had been smiling, if what he'd said was true. Maybe it was just him who seemed intent on being a crabby little fuck the whole night. He eyed the frontman, wondering if the same thoughts of demon-purging were running through his mind. The fact that he seemed unable to focus on much besides those pouting lips, or those bright hazel eyes, slipped his notice for now.  
  
The drummer chewed on his lip, thoughtful, rubbing his thumb over the lip of his bottle. His turn.  
  
"I never thought…I'd always looked at bands like Guns 'N' Roses or Kiss or fuckin'...all those guys who are clearly either just in it for the money after all these years and can't stand each other, or can't stop fighting long enough to get some music down and then line their pockets. I saw them and I saw the absolute fuckin' antithesis of what I wanted to be. Twenty years later, and…" he spread his arms wide, wine sloshing violently in its bottle. "…look at me now! This parody of what metal, what Metallica is supposed to be."  
  
He let his head thump against the back of the booth, a too familiar bubble of frustration rising in his chest. He began gesturing as he spoke, hoping Billie would understand, despite the lack of true clarity in his words.  
  
"Just…ugh. We had a system, right? All bands have a system or a routine that they get into, voluntary or not. We had our fuckin' system, whether it was the right way or not, and it worked for a long time. Now…" he shrugged in exasperation. "…the system has failed."  
  
A pause, a blink, and Lars chuckled at the mighty irony that had just passed his lips.  
  
"Oh, God…" he groaned, rubbing his tired face which bore a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It faded quickly anyway. He paused again and sighed, taking a long few swigs from his wine.  
  
"I guess all bands start out with their wide-eyed, idealistic goals, huh?" he murmured ruefully. "Fuckin' world."  
  
Realising that, like himself, Billie probably didn't want to be talked at all night, he thought back to what Billie had said. Adjustments, family, strained atmosphere while touring… Damn familiar. Despite his self-absorption, he had caught that little twang of nerves in the other man's voice. Lars licked his lips, thinking.  
  
"That tense thing? I know what you mean," he murmured quietly, eyes dropping to the carpet. He nodded slowly, eyebrows raising a little. "I know _exactly_ what you mean. Honestly, I sort of wish I could feel that tense air again. At least that would be something." His voice grew even quieter, eyes clouding a little more as his mind cast back into memory. "At least it would be better than…nothing."  
  
"A parody," Billie repeated slowly, his mind fuzzed around the edges enough that he had to consciously focus on the other man's words. "Yeah. We all get into it because of the music and somewhere that gets lost. You lose the music, you lose the meaning."  
  
He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth as he fumbled his way through the thought, vaguely wishing he had some gum to chew instead. "Bands form a brotherhood kinda if you're lucky. Me and Mike and Tré, we were closer than most. Had to be if we were gonna make it once we went major, 'cause the whole fucking world turned against us." He shrugged, lost in memory for a moment. "Guess that was our system: lean on each other. Worked great, till someone leaned too hard or something and now it's just…fuck, I don't even know."  
  
Billie took a long swallow from his bottle and scrunched down even further on the bench until only his shoulders rested against the back of the booth, his knees bent up where his feet were set along the edge of the table. He rested the bottle on top of his right hip, tilting the neck into the space between his legs to check the liquid level. Shit, maybe a quarter left; no wonder he was having trouble forming complete sentences. He set the bottle upright again, grimacing as the heavy glass bottom grazed the jutting hipbone. Tré'd been teasing the hell out of him by the end of the tour, saying he'd lost so much weight that if Billie hadn't had a dick, he'd be invisible once he turned sideways.  
  
He flicked a glance at Lars but couldn't bear to look at him as he talked, scared of what he might see in the drummer's eyes. Scared to say anything at all but feeling like he could – like this man was one of the few who might be able to really understand, without getting directly involved and without judging. Maybe because of what he had already said about wanting to feel something, anything. It took balls to admit that and Billie felt he needed to honour it.  
  
"I think _I_ lost the music. Can't seem to write anything that doesn't suck cock like a homophobic virgin boy and with everything so fucking…ugh, just _wrong_ , I can't get it together. I don't know how to put it back together this time."  
  
Billie Joe continued to stare at the bright stripes of his socks, exposed where his pants had ridden up when he'd put his feet on the table, his insides churning over the possible response to that confession.  
  
Lars's eyes remained settled on the floor while Billie spoke, slowly absorbing all he was being told.  
  
 _Ha, lean on each other. I wish. All that macho bullshit…_  
  
His mind spat acidly. _Obviously we weren't supposed to lean on each other,_ of course _we were supposed to stand up tall and not need each other._  
  
Fuck, the frustrated, bitter anger inside him was so strong it was making his chest hurt.  
  
As Billie fell silent with those stark words, Lars raised his eyes to the other man. He was somewhat surprised at how similar they were, both in problems and honesty. For now, his bottle sat forgotten in his grasp. In a somewhat rare fit of compassion, he wished he could say something to help. Sadly, all he could come up with was…was…  
  
"Maybe you're not supposed to."  
  
It was half to himself.  
  
"Maybe someone else is supposed to put it back together for you," he added quietly. Inwardly, he knew all the darkness that it implied.  
  
Suddenly, an impulse struck him, sharp and clear and raw. Lars turned a little more, facing Billie more directly, and voiced a question that had been haunting him silently for many, many months.  
  
"How do you know?" He paused and swallowed, eyes a little wider and, bizarrely considering the alcohol in his body, clearer. "I mean…are you supposed to? Is it…is it signposted, is it obvious? How do you know when it's over?"  
  
Part of him hated how his voice had faltered just barely. Part of him wanted to run far away from any possible answer. And part of him needed one like fucking oxygen.  
  
Billie's breath stuttered at the desperation evident in Lars's voice. _How do you know when it's over?_  
  
It echoed inside his head, reverberating until something burst in his chest. Twenty years with one man by his side, more than half of that with a third band mate, all of them intertwined by who they were and who they'd made each other. No, it goddamned well was _not_ over.  
  
"Do you want it?" he hissed. Seeing the drummer's confusion at the question, Billie sat up in one smooth, violent motion, stuffing the wine bottle into the seam between the cushions beside him and sliding right over to Lars, fingers reaching out to grip his shoulders. He stared into clearing green eyes and repeated himself.  
  
"Do you want it? The band. The music. You're sitting here as torn as I am, fucking hemorrhaging angst and rage because neither of us is able to stop caring even if we wanted to. So you tell me.  
  
" _Do you want it?_ "  
  
The drummer froze in Billie's grip, body going taut and throat closing up. The question jarred through him, setting off a firestorm in his stomach. A thousand furious retorts exploded like petrol bombs in his head. _Get your fucking hands off me, how dare you, you don't understand, who do you think you are…_ All fighting so hard for prominence, none of them could reach his lips. Bright hazel eyes made it near impossible to think clearly. Once the answer came to him, though, it was like a dam breaking.  
  
He leaned forward, leg coming down from the table, pushing against Billie's hands to get right in his face, eyes blazing.  
  
" _Pikhoved_ , this band has been my _life_ for twenty years. It's the only band I will _ever_ be in. It's _my_ fucking band, _my_ fucking music and it's one of the most incredible, important things that has ever happened to me – right now I don't want it, I fucking _need_ it. I need it and all the shit, all the bickering, the fuck ups, the headaches, the heavy nights, the injuries, the hangovers that go with it. I need to be the one that pushes James's buttons, the one that gropes Kirk in photo shoots, the one that gets pissy with Bob for shooting down one of my ideas, and the one that beats his drums so fucking hard that even though he tapes up his hands, they still bleed every other show. But forgive me for knowing, after sitting in this seemingly endless purgatory for months on end, that there are some things you just can't control – I realised that the second James walked out on me—"  
  
It was a long second before Lars realised his mistake. His unnerving glare faltered, eyes flickering, feeling a boulder drop in his stomach.  
  
"Us," he corrected, far too late. He looked down, letting go of his wine bottle, hands tightening into fists by his sides. " _Fuck_ …"  
  
He was breathing hard, everything coming out of Lars striking directly at his own emotions, when the drummer slipped. Billie probably wouldn't even have noticed if Lars hadn't corrected himself, his face whitening a little as he looked away. The abrupt lack of green heat in his face made Billie wobbly, realising how badly he'd invaded the other's personal space. Even more so with that small mistake, that tiny change in words that changed everything.  
  
 _I'm not the only one._ The relief of that overwhelmed him. He couldn't even say why it mattered so much, really, but it did. And because it did, it didn't feel right to move away as he spoke. Unconsciously his grip on Lars softened, his thumbs beginning to rub soothingly at the tight muscles.  
  
"You're right – you can't control everything, no matter how fucking hard you try. Especially not the people you love." His voice dropped to a near-whisper and he stared at a random spot on the drummer's temple, some portion of his brain trying to figure out how long it had been since the bleach job by how much darkness had grown in. Billie didn't have the courage to look right at him as he simply admitted the truth, hoping he wasn't making his own mistake in doing so.  
  
"Twenty years is how long I've known Mike and I've never been able to control him."  
  
Even as Billie's thumbs smoothed tiny circles into his skin, Lars's shoulders tensed more. A dissenting little voice in the back of his head hissed how James had never done that for him. A little frustrated, downright upset noise crawled from his throat, barely audible, as he glared swords into the small patch of cushion between the two of them.  
  
 _Fuck, fuck, fuck, I've never told that to anyone, anyone at all, not Kirk, not Bob, not Phil, not even my father, and the first person outside of James and I that know is…is…fuck…_  
  
As he wondered how easy it would be to _make sure_ Billie wouldn't tell anyone, the black-haired frontman spoke, and his train of thought derailed spectacularly. In fact, it didn't even derail, it vanished in some bizarre parallel universe black hole incident. Lars only raised his eyes only when Billie fell silent, his confession hanging precariously in the air. _Confession? Is it really a confession? Is he just saying that, is he bullshitting me? Does he think_ I'm _bullshitting_ him _?_ Seeing the look on Billie's face, at once fragile and stark, Lars concluded that no, neither of them felt the need for bullshitting now.  
  
Not knowing exactly how to validate what Billie had said, but silently thanking him for being in the same extremely fucked up boat, Lars momentarily fell back into defensive mode, eyes finding the floor again.  
  
"I don't love him," he growled somewhat petulantly, such a barefaced lie he wondered why he even wasted his breath on it. He paused and rubbed at his eyes with his forefinger and thumb, continuing quietly. "I don't want to control him. I know I can't, so I'd rather not waste the energy. All I want is…" he trailed off, honestly not know exactly _what_ he wanted from James anymore. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, for a split second feeling James's strong hands on him, all over him, tattooed arms wrapping around him and warming him, and that soft growl in his ear. But only for a split second. Then it was just him and Billie, small, warm hands on his shoulders and painful honesty hanging like fog around him. He looked at Billie again, directly.  
  
"The last time I saw James, we were fighting. We were in the studio, and he was in a shit mood, and I called him a dick and the next thing I see is him stalking out of the studio and slamming the door. That was three months ago. He's been in rehab for nearly all of that time." He paused, feeling prickles dance up his spine at the memory. He licked his lips and swallowed, chest burning. His voice began to crack. "That's good. That's a good thing, I'm so proud of him for it. But do you know what burns me up? In all that time, he's spoken to other friends, he's spoken to Kirk…but he hasn't spoken to me. Not once. And he told Kirk that he can't.  
  
"The last thing he said to me was that he told me he was in a shit mood and all I'd been doing was picking at him the whole night. For three months…that's all I've had. I'd...I'd rather see him and have him be pissed at me every day than…this. Than knowing that he _can't_ talk to me."  
  
Suddenly, he sagged, feeling exhausted at this outpouring of truth. Maybe it was that his attention was suddenly and absolutely focused on those hands on his shoulders, but though he'd never, ever admit it, he wanted far more than just a shoulder rub from Billie right that moment.  
  
"Harsh," Billie said quietly, mulling over the situation Lars had outlined. "I don't want to control Mike either. I might have in the beginning, but we were so fucking young and I was trying to control everything back then." He snorted. "Getting married and having a kid killed that impulse. Kids teach you that you can't control a fucking thing."  
  
He leaned closer, a crease appearing between his eyebrows as the rest of his fingers joined in rubbing the tense drummer. He wasn't really thinking about it or aware that he just kept pushing farther; he wanted to help. And Billie was, frankly, accustomed to the contact. He'd always been one to hug and kiss readily. Copious amounts of alcohol didn't exactly diminish the tendency.  
  
Of course, it wasn't really as simple as all that. His hands enjoyed the muscle beneath them, feeling it contract and relax as Lars moved. Some part of him vaguely wondering if the muscles of his back would shift the same way, bunching under the smooth skin.  
  
"Those last words, dude, those always suck. I don't know. Might be better to know that he feels strongly enough about you that he doesn't feel able to talk to you right now, than if you were seeing him all the time and everything both of you were saying was so much meaningless shit."  
  
Billie looked away from eyes that had become too clear, lashes veiling his gaze as he shrugged awkwardly, seeing the polite, dead expression that had become Mike's norm swimming in front of him, superimposed over the drummer's chest. He wanted it gone, wanted to lose himself for a while with a sudden ferocity that startled him even though it had been his goal for tonight from the start.  
  
His fingers tightened until his nails dug into flesh and the convulsive movement caught his attention, making him notice finally what he was doing. The air left his lungs as he realised he was probably about to get knocked on his ass for that – and that he wasn't sure he'd mind.  
  
Lars grunted, a rolling growl in the back of his throat as his eyes moved slowly to the fingertips pressing hard into his shoulder. Those sharp pricks of pain as nails pinched half-moons into his tanned skin. His eyes narrowed reflexively, but the sting of outrage and the urge to lash out was not forthcoming. He remained silent for a long time, scowling pointlessly at the source of his discomfort. He reached for his wine bottle, leaning back a little, pursing his lips around the neck and upending it. Head back, he gulped the sharp liquid down until there was nothing but air.  
  
He took little comfort in Billie's words. He was probably right, but it wasn't the answer he wanted. Not then. He wanted safety, security. Not speculation. Something tangible.  
Dropping the bottle carelessly to the floor, heavy green eyes travelled up to Billie's face, the dark glower from earlier that night shadowing his face once again.  
  
"We didn't come here for this." he growled. " _I_ didn't come here for this. Whining and bitching about petty shit, I…"  
  
Something unravelled inside Lars at that moment, instantaneous and breathtaking, something he couldn't name. It sparked his body into action.  
  
He lurched forward, one hand grasping Billie's wrist and slamming it back against the panel wall of the booth. His body twisted and arched, knees sliding into the cushions, other hand coming down to grip at the inside of the other man's thigh. His eyes burned dark as he tilted his head, breath a harsh rasp.  
  
"We came here…because we wanted _distraction_."


	2. Chapter 2

Instead of the half-expected blow, Billie Joe found himself stretched across the velvet cushions, Lars glaring at him with ominous purpose as he pinned him open. Billie's hips angled towards the iron hand clamped onto his inner thigh and his legs spread slightly, small movements made during the first seconds after the drummer struck, while he was too shocked to control instinct. But he knew that it was more than enough to give him away, judging by the glitter of intensity in that green gaze.  
  
Lars was right, though. Billie had come here with a will to forget, to submerge all that his words had expressed, for just a little while. And there was no point in trying to hide anything from the other man, not now, not after the things he had said, the secrets he had already exposed.  
  
With his free hand, he reached for his bottle of wine, pulling it from its wedged position and shotgunning the remaining contents. He let it spill down his throat so fast that a trickle of red escaped from the corner of his mouth. Billie wiped it away with the back of his hand and dropped the empty bottle, feeling the infusion of alcohol burn through his system.  
  
This time, the movement was deliberate when his thigh rocked into the drummer's grip and he met those smouldering eyes with a challenge in his own.  
  
"Yeah, I came here for distraction. You gonna give me that?"  
  
One final pang of guilt slithered up Lars's spine and hissed into his brain. _He's not James. He's not Skylar. This isn't right, you shouldn't do this and you'll regret it if you do.  
  
No,_ he thought, _he's not James. He's nothing at all like James. The similarity between them ends in that they're both human beings._  
  
Fingertips pressing into the warm flesh of Billie's thigh, thumb stroking lazily up and down, he moved with all the languidness of a sun-soaked lizard, shifting until his knees rested astride of the other man's leg. He lowered himself until he rested, just barely, on the denim clad thigh. He bent down over Billie, wine-twisted breath ghosting over a pale cheek.  
  
 _This can be my big Fuck You to him.  
  
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, James. I hope you'll fucking hear this. _  
  
Fuck _you._  
  
All thoughts of his bandmate forcibly washed out of his mind, his hand slid slow and smooth up Billie's thigh, dragging over his crotch and up to the button on his jeans.  
  
"I don't care if I give you anything at all," he murmured, undoing the button and drawing the zipper down as he spoke. For some reason, he was unsurprised at the lack of underwear present. Not that he cared why, it made things easier, after all. Without another pause, he slipped his hand into Billie's open pants and grasped his cock, feeling something heated swirl in his stomach at the contact. At the same time, his lips dropped to Billie's jawbone, just beneath his earlobe, teeth grazing over skin as he spoke.  
  
"But I'm gonna take everything I can."  
  
Not waiting for a reply, his mouth moved to close hard over those pouting lips, claiming them for his own.  
  
Billie's mind went blank when Lars straddled his leg, his wide eyes watching the other man lean closer in a smooth, unhurried motion, shoulders blocking out the dim light. He sucked in a breath at the slow drag of fingers over his groin and then the drummer's hand was in his pants, and his mouth was taking, taking, taking; stealing Billie's air and words and _everything_ with savage thoroughness.  
  
A little voice in his head screamed, _Public public you stupid fuck you're in PUBLIC,_ but he wasn't really listening as callused fingers demanded – and got – a full erection from him in no time at all. Except that he apparently was paying attention because knowing that his cock was out, right fucking there for anyone passing by the booth to see, forced a low whine of arousal from his throat. It made him feel ten kinds of dirty and magnified the rough handling a thousandfold.  
  
He paid even less attention to the other little voice, the one that carried overtones of guilt. His _wife_ was okay with this. There had been a few other men over the years and he was sure that it was tied up in her head somewhere with their agreement about Mike. She knew and she didn't care because there had never been – would never be – another woman, not since the day she'd slipped a wedding band on his twenty-two-year-old finger.  
  
Mike hadn't known. Compounding the fallacy of his sin by committing another held a strange kind of logic, not to mention it being a _Fuck you_ to him for trying to control Billie. He wasn't married to Mike, goddamn it. He didn't owe the bassist anything.  
  
Billie squashed the objections by reaching for Lars with a desperation even he could feel, hands running over the muscular torso as his hips lifted into the insistent grip on his cock. He had enough presence of mind left to make the effort of speech.  
  
"I was planning on getting too drunk to stand. Got a hotel room, across the street."  
  
Lars sneered against Billie's mouth, rolling his hips and grinding against his leg; unashamedly sexual and not giving a flying damn who saw. The amount of alcohol coursing through his body increased his audacity, spurred him on, aided by the feeling of the hardened cock in his fist. He dragged his tongue along the frontman's reddened bottom lip, taking dark delight in his apparent pliancy.  
  
"If this is too much for you, I could always drag you out into the middle of the bar…" he arched his back, neglected skin jumping at Billie's touch, his own arousal beginning to show. His voice contorted into an almost threatening rasp. "…and _fuck you right there_."  
  
At that he began to suck at the flesh of a pale throat, some inebriated inner voice musing how the other man's mouth tasted of red wine, how he could still taste his white, and that he could make some artistic observation that it was two sides coming together. Y'know, if he was that sort of pretentious dick.  
  
Sliding his free hand from Billie's pinned wrist to curl into the fabric of his black shirt, Lars pulled him up into a sitting position and was drawn back to his mouth, tongue delving in slow and sleazy. Fingertips danced maddeningly over the other man's heated cock, rubbing tauntingly at the slit. He rocked against Billie's leg, friction sending sparks to his brain, movements growing more fervent.  
  
"You want me over there, just for you, just for tonight?" he asked, eyes dark and poisonous. "Convince me."  
  
Billie whimpered at the idea of being dragged into the centre of the room, the image flooding him and sending his pulse racing. Of course, such a display would soon be accompanied by cops and photographers and the complete disarray of both their lives, but in a moment of pure fantasy he could feel the other patrons' eyes on them as the drummer drove into him on the worn carpet and he shuddered, fingers clutching at the muscle shirt.  
  
Then, as he was drawn upright for more bruising kisses, the other man issued a challenge. Rallying from the drugging effect of lips and teeth and most especially that goddamned teasing _hand_ , Billie shifted a little and looked at Lars through his eyelashes. He turned up the battery of his eyes, past 'come hither' and all the way up to 'fuck me now' before he spoke.  
  
"Lars," he murmured throatily, the invitation all the stronger for it being the first time he'd said his name tonight. Billie lifted his foot and propped it against the table, thanking all that was holy that it was bolted to the floor, and then flexed his thigh, improving the contact, urging those hips to rock harder, faster; and he fastened his mouth to Lars's.  
  
He threw everything he had into the kiss, bringing all of his considerable talent to bear as his tongue swept in to dance and tangle, one hand curling in the bleached hair as the other slipped down to cradle the firm ass, keeping the rhythm as he pressed even closer. At length he broke away, panting, a slight smile gracing his mouth at the glazed green eyes.  
  
"Convinced yet?"  
  
Lars let out a hissed breath on his release, body shuddering slightly, hips bucking involuntarily. Whether he particularly wanted to or not, whether he cared about their far-too-public display or not, his lust and his dick told him that he needed to be inside this man very, very soon. If Billie didn't want it to play out here, then it didn't play out here. He belatedly realised that there was going to be a lot more to this night than the sly fumble or, at best, the throwaway fuck that he'd anticipated.  
  
Reining in the urge to pin Billie and show him all the things he'd learned to do with his mouth in his nearly forty years on this little planet, he wrapped an arm around that pretty neck and pulled him close, bumping noses and twisting breath. Eyes dilated and glazed, he let out a strained, throaty moan of affirmation, stole a brief, sloppy kiss, and slid from Billie's lap, freeing his hand and reaching for his jacket.  
  
Moments later, two fifty dollar bills slid across the bar to the bartender, accompanied by a friendly glare and some wise words.  
  
"That's for your co-operation."  
  
Shit-eating smirk firmly in place, he slung an arm around Billie's shoulders and backed off towards the door. Once they reached it, and once out of view to everyone but the bartender, Lars turned his head and ran his tongue along Billie's earlobe, casting an arrogant look to an almost gaping worker. His mouth dropped to suck and nibble at the other man's neck, hand splaying over his chest, as he leaned against the door and pushed it open. Green eyes burned.  
  
Lars didn't care. It could have been some _kamikaze_ , foolhardy, fuck-it-all feeling flowing through his veins, but he really didn't care. Let them see, let them tell. After all, who the fuck would believe a scenario like this?  
  
The bartender's shocked expression stayed with Billie as he was manhandled out the door, anchored to Lars's side by the muscular arm around his shoulders. He stumbled a little, knees weakening as it hit him that the drummer had not been kidding about wanting to be convinced to leave. That he'd been completely prepared to fuck Billie Joe right there, in the darkened booth at the back of some bar, amidst the wine spilled on velvet cushions that would have muffled the noise.  
  
A shiver spiralled through him and it further occurred to him to be glad of the arrogant display because it meant there was someone in the world who knew that he'd left with Lars Ulrich. A crazy thought, yes, but there was nothing about the man beside him that said, 'safe'.  
  
Then again, Billie wasn't looking for safe. He was looking for temporary oblivion, and instinct told him that with Lars he could find it.  
  
"You like to play dangerous, don't you?" Billie dared to voice some of what he was thinking as they crossed the street, traffic minimal at this hour. His steps guided them around to the back of the cheap motel; all he'd cared about was that it was close and it was clean, and he'd taken the room farthest from the street to minimise any chance of discovery. Digging in his pocket for the key, he glanced at the silent musician, his face burning at the knowing amusement in those poisonous green eyes. _Damned pale skin,_ he cursed inwardly, long experience telling him that the flush would be visible.  
  
To cover his discomfort, he sneered. "What?"  
  
Lars laughed, loud and cruel; what a question. He absolutely _adored_ the glow in Billie's cheeks, it made his inner asshole do backflips. The same inner asshole who just wanted to torment this needy little man with lips and teeth and hands and taunting words until he exploded with frustration or come, or both.  
  
Honestly, he was a little glad to get out of that booth, glad that Billie had had the forethought to get a motel. As astronomically horny as he'd been, as spurred on by that admittedly head spinning kiss as he'd been, and as ready and willing to fuck this man right then and there as he'd been…it would've been awkward and uncomfortable. If one of them hadn't fallen off the seat then Lars would've burned his ass on the light fitting…though that would have to have been an interesting position to get into…  
  
No, it was better that there was a bed. Or a cabinet. Or a shower. Or a windowsill. He wasn't fussy.  
  
He answered the question with another.  
  
"Ever thought of doing it outside a cheap motel, against the door, trying real hard to be quiet but you just can't help the little whimpers and cries that creep out?" he paused for effect. "I haven't thought about it."  
  
Arm slithering from around Billie's shoulders, he turned the younger man and pressed him up against the door. He slid his hand down the lithe body to slip into his pocket, covering the hand already there and drawing it up against Billie's groin as he pulled out the key. He hissed against the frontman's ear.  
  
" _I was the one against the door_."  
  
Stomach absolutely _boiling_ at the memory, Lars stepped away from the still strawberry-tinted Billie, slipping his hands into his own pockets and eyeing him with a green fire that glowed even in this relative darkness. He visualised what that pale skin would look like stretched over tensed muscles, wrapping a supple, shining body that arched over sheets and trembled with pleasure…  
  
He tilted his head, smirk everpresent. "But really, you don't have an affair with your bandmate in a world-famous band if you don't like dangerous, do you?"  
  
A small laugh escaped Billie at the rhetorical question, because it was too obviously right. Even if the…thing with Mike had begun before their careers had broken wide open, it had continued through the fluctuating fame, right up until late this last tour. He didn't know what to call where they were now, and shoved the thoughts away.  
  
Deliberately he sloped his hips forward, letting his shirt ride up above the low-slung jeans, leaving his hand cupping his own crotch. Lust shone from Lars's eyes, so strong it emanated like heat waves. The admission that he had been the one pinned to a motel door in the past stirred a vague surprise that dissipated quickly; Billie could and did top very well when he wanted to, after all, so it wasn't that big a shock. But the aggression displayed in every line of the drummer's body shouted that there would be no such switching tonight.  
  
Billie slowly began to run his fingers along his erection, nails pressing delicately against the denim covering the rigid flesh. He wet his lips, knowing he looked completely fucking debauched leaning on the door with his cheeks still flushed and teasing himself. He locked eyes with Lars as he let out a moan, clearly audible in the night air.  
  
"We could fuck right here, as long as you don't mind having the entire neighbourhood watching because I can guarantee that no matter how hard I try, it ain't gonna be quiet."  
  
An admission of his own, and the real reason he'd wanted to leave the bar for true privacy. He was too far past control to be capable of keeping to near silence. Adrienne loved to do this to him, get him so goddamned hot that he couldn't tell which way was up or hold anything back. But she certainly hadn't done it – or anything else – lately, not since the disaster known as her attempt to explain everything to Mike. She'd told Billie that until he'd figured it all out in his own mind, he wasn't welcome in her bed.  
  
So here he was, splayed against a motel door with his hand on his cock like a slut, making eyes at a man he respected as a musician by day. A man who by night, he was discovering, became someone who seemed as if he could take everything Billie could throw at him, and probably more.  
  
A smirk teased the corner of his mouth and he nodded at the pocketed hand that had stolen his key as he rubbed harder, words emerging in a breathless pant. "Planning to use that any time soon? Or should I just do for myself, right like this?"  
  
Lars grinned, laugh rolling up low from his chest.  
  
"This is more fuckin' like it," he growled. "This is what I was waiting for."  
  
With a strange speed and smoothness, he slunk back up to the younger man, eyes travelling hungrily over his petite body and every dirty little thing he was doing serving like a shot in the arm. Or dick.  
  
He hadn't been the pitcher in a long, long fucking time, but he was damned if he was going to let this little man fuck _him_. In his mind, it'd be worse than just going home drunk off his ass. After all the fucking he'd been on the receiving end of lately, all metaphorical, he didn't just want to do some fucking of his own, he needed it, for the sake of his mental health.  
  
Besides, there was some anger he still had to work out. And there was no drumkit nearby to pound on.  
  
Feeling predatory as all fuck, cock growing painful in his pants and spurred on by the lazy, libidinous glow in those large hazel eyes, he reached around to grasp Billie's ass, hitching him up and pulling his legs to wrap around his waist. He rocked his hips, his erection, up against that tightly-clad ass, squeezing it as he did so, pushing the frontman hard up against the door. He raised his head to nip harshly at full, pouting lips.  
  
"You should be careful what you say. You might get what you ask for."  
  
By now, fire ripped through his brain and kept any rationality at bay, his groin being the sole pilot of his body. Lips dropping to drag along Billie's throat and neck, he continued, voice husky and breath laboured.  
  
"I'm gonna fuck you, and I'm gonna fuck you hard, and I'm damn sure that I'm gonna leave a mark or two, whether you want me to or not. But unless you want your ass in tatters, I need you on that bed in there, putting that complimentary shower gel to good use…"  
  
Passing over the 'I need you' comment as if it were nothing and not a slip of the tongue, he dug out the stolen key and swiped it through the reader, green light blinking on. He pressed the handle down, leaning heavily on it with a slightly breathless Billie still in his grasp. He arched an eyebrow as the door swung open under their combined weight and they staggered into the darkness.  
  
"…'less you came prepared, _slut_."  
  
Eventually his lungs would remember how to breathe properly again, but it wasn't now as Billie gasped, crushed between Lars and the door with the drummer's cock pressing hard against his ass and his grating taunts that sounded like promises echoing in Billie's ears. And then the door was gone and they were inside, wood swinging shut, Lars's last words hanging in the air to be sucked in with a deep breath at last.  
  
Heat flooded his face and neck, though he wasn't ashamed of this burn between them or of the way he allowed every reaction to show. But the fact that he hadn't gotten out of the habit yet, that he _was_ prepared, struck him with the force of that four-letter-word because in this moment, it was more than true. For a dizzying second he had a glimpse of what it might feel like to be a groupie, whoring yourself to a rock god, and while it reinforced the decision his band had made not to engage in that 'tradition', it also spurred him on, desire swooping in his stomach.  
  
Not replying aloud, Billie shook himself loose from Lars and ducked into the bathroom, rummaging in the leather toiletry bag that had been a gift from his in-laws years ago. He re-entered the bedroom, still red but with his head held high, and looked straight into preternaturally bright green eyes as he passed over a small tube of lubricant…and a handful of condoms.  
  
His steady gaze held more than a hint of vulnerability, if he could but see it himself. "All I'm going to say is that it's been a little while, and no marks on my face." _Other than that, I'm yours tonight,_ he added silently. _Can you take everything, the way you said you were going to earlier? Can you take_ me _?_  
  
Really, he should've guessed by the way Billie turned a vibrant shade of beetroot, stronger than before and visible even in the darkness, but when the collection of objects dropped into Lars's hands, his eyebrows raised high. One more thing he hadn't been expecting. Wasn't this guy just full of surprises?  
  
"That's very interesting," he murmured. Amusement touched his expression as he narrowed his eyes, reading the look of honest exposure he was confronted with. "That's _very_ interesting. Wonder who you were hoping to run into tonight…"  
  
Although he was aroused, and although he sure as hell wasn't going to back out of this, Lars couldn't help but feel a little cheated. He couldn't put his finger on why, exactly, but maybe he was hoping for something as base and dirty as needy, hard fucking with shampoo or shower gel or beer or the best they could find in this seedy little place. Maybe because, in his own mind, Billie had just waited for someone, anyone to come along and be lured back, and Lars had just happened to be there, which bit at his pride something terrible. Those narrowed eyes turned into a scowl for a fleeting few moments.  
  
 _Well,_ he thought. _You better give him a reason to remember you, huh?_  
  
His lips twisted into a cruel grin as he reached up to run fingertips around the curve of Billie's jaw. "Why would I ever do damage to that pretty face?"  
  
The same hand continued on its path to wrap around Billie's tie, abruptly yanking it down and bringing the younger man crashing to his knees. As soon as he was down Lars pulled the tie up, taut, lips splitting for a terrible, wolfish grin as he moved towards the bed, dragging and hauling Billie onto it with a snarl. Then he was there, above him and all over him, condoms and lube scattering over the bedspread, hands at his shirt, mouth devouring his, bristling with all the savage dominance he'd learned from his absent lover and all the bitter anger he'd kept to himself for far too long.  
  
Billie choked a little as his tie was used like a fucking leash to get him onto the bed, his knees twinging in a way that told him they would hurt tomorrow. But this was only the beginning and he welcomed the pain. It brought him one step closer to forgetting himself.  
  
He had seen the shadow pass over Lars's face when he'd dropped everything into his palms and he knew what it looked like. What it had looked like since Billie first mentioned that he had a room. He couldn't explain why it was important to clear that up, unless it was simply that he had been more honest with this man in the last couple of hours than he'd been with anyone else in a very long time.  
  
He tore his mouth away, moaning when teeth bit into his ear lobe instead. "Habits get ingrained after twelve years. You bring things you don't expect to need, just 'cause you're used to it." He shifted easily, helping get his shirt off and half-laughing, half-cussing as the damned button on his jeans went flying. Lars obviously wanted his pants off right this fucking second. Billie wriggled out of the tight denim and then he lay naked under the drummer save for the tie still cinched around his neck.  
  
His body seemed to catch fire everywhere the rough palms touched and he tugged insistently at the other's muscle shirt, wanting skin-on-skin _now_.  
  
"F'things had gone according to plan, I would've been too smashed to even notice I had a boner, assuming I could've gotten one by that time." God, why was he still talking when he wanted to drown in those brutal kisses? He finished out the thought, cringing inside slightly as he heard the shading of wonder in his voice, knowing it for the weapon it could be, especially in the hands of the man on top of him. "Wasn't expecting anything like this. _Never_ would've expected this."  
  
Lars barely registered Billie's words, caught up in lavishing attention on freshly exposed, tattooed skin as he was, but they _did_ process eventually. Habits, huh? He chuckled harshly, words muffled against a warm body.  
  
"Whatever you say…"  
  
This runaway train masquerading as a desperate encounter between two ridiculously famous rock stars was not something he'd expected either. Especially not _this_ guy. In fact, he'd have put good money on Dave Mustaine dropping to his knees and sucking his dick (ugh, let's put that thought away right now) before this happening. This Billie Joe guy, from Green Day, out of whose songs he could probably name one or two at a push. Needs must when the devil drives, he supposed pretentiously.  
  
Shouldering off his jacket with a speed that suggested it was made of acid and spiders, muscle shirt following quickly after, his hands moving to claw at his belt while his mouth continued its assault. Nerves sparked with the same energy that crashed through him before he took to the stage, body throbbing with a different kind of need. The belt snapped free from its loops, and fuck, he just couldn't move fast enough. This new skin he was tasting was fucking _intoxicating_.  
  
Breath puffing ragged, he crawled down the other man's body, licking and nipping, learning its contours, fighting to pull off his own pants. He paused at a sharp hipbone, just over a small tattoo, a number that was meaningless to him.  
  
"I'll be honest…this is convenient…and necessary…" he sucked in a breath, eyes darting up to meet Billie's, before he continued in an almost hateful rasp. "…and _you're not James_ …"  
  
He bit down hard and sucked at that creamy flesh, previously impotent rage pouring into his actions now it finally had an outlet. Stopping just short of tasting copper, he finally managed to push down his jeans and boxers and kick them away. He grinned devilishly, rising up a little, anger and lust swirling together in his eyes.  
  
"So…who would you call the starfucker?"  
  
Billie made a satisfied noise as warm, bare flesh finally covered him, topped by a restless mouth that felt like it was everywhere all at once, right up until the second that teeth sank into his hip and his focus narrowed to the sharp bite of pleasure with a long moan.  
  
Followed by a cynical laugh as his language filter caught up and he understood what Lars had said. He'd had that coming but he was not the starry-eyed dreamer his comment had implied, and if the drummer expected it to be news that he was here because of who Billie _wasn't_ then he was sorely mistaken.  
  
"Yeah, well, you're not a tall, blue-eyed asshole so I'd say we're even on that score."  
  
He eyed the now-naked man, the lean lines of his body partially visible as Lars lifted up between his thighs. Meeting that heated gaze, seeing the swirl of fury mixing with the blaze of hunger, Billie had no illusions. This wasn't going to be some pretty little fuck. It was going to be hard and dirty and it was going to hurt. And right now, knowing that only made him want it more.  
  
Completely shameless, he spread his legs wide and lifted his hips, erection bumping against the drummer's bare chest. "As to who's the starfucker, I'd say that's you."  
  
Unsure whether to take that as a compliment or insult, and being that he'd asked for it anyway, Lars just leered and rolled his hips against Billie's smooth, bare ass. Riding on the wave of _that_ moan, he licked his lips and descended over the frontman to steal another kiss, open mouthed and deep, while grasping blindly for that peskily small tube. A growl reverberated into Billie's mouth as he fumbled around, hips twitching involuntarily, blood pounding in his ears and making his body throb.  
  
Finally laying his hand on it, he practically tore the cap off and slathered his fingers in the cool substance.  
  
"Guess I should get an autograph before I go, then…"  
  
Barely a moment after the words left his mouth, his slick fingers dragged down the younger man's pale thigh to his pucker, and a brief press was the only warning given before two of them pushed sharply into him, breaking what was probably their last boundary – as if there was any need for them by now. Lars smiled again, other hand clawing and digging nails into Billie's side, voice an unnerving purr.  
  
"How's that, Billie Joe?"  
  
He heard words as Lars's mouth withdrew from his, but their sense was lost at the swift penetration and Billie arched, spine bending into a wicked curve as a deep groan ripped from his throat.  
  
"Fuck," he gasped out, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense burn; the pain beginning its transformation as the drummer added friction, fingerfucking him mercilessly until he clutched at the broad shoulders, wanting more and getting it, three fingers spearing inside him. He was aware that Lars watched him, mocking heat spilling from those green eyes to sweep through him and lay him bare.  
  
Billie pulled the drummer down for a savage kiss, biting at his lips. A husky laugh bubbled out as Lars chastised him for that, teeth sinking into Billie's bottom lip and fingers scissoring viciously. He licked his lips when the drummer released his mouth, noting the faint taste of blood.  
  
Answering the part of the conversation he had heard, Billie pushed down on that slick hand, making his meaning perfectly clear. "Good."  
  
Tasting blood that wasn't his own made Lars's head spin, low moan pouring out over pale skin.  
  
"Fuck," he echoed, body shuddering as he drove Billie to the edge and dragged him back, over and over, curling his fingers to press at that torturous little nub and feeling him clench hard. His own cock heavy and hot between his legs, he arched down, teeth finding tattooed chest and spilling more blood. He sucked greedily at the wound, and withdrew his fingers with a shattering abruptness. Bloody mouth raising to capture the gasp Billie let out, he fastened to that open mouth, tongue plunging in and twisting out further moans.  
  
He wasn't done. As he'd silently maintained what seemed like days ago, Billie was not going to get him without working for it. Working _hard_ for it. Opportunities like this were few and far between in general; for Lars, they were virtually non-existent. So he was going to use this one to its fullest. Another fleeting flash of James, above him and owning him completely, blinked into his mind, and then it was gone.  
  
Grasping himself and fighting the base, strong desire to jerk himself off, he hissed a command that he'd never had the chance to before, in a voice that was barely his own.  
  
" _Fucking beg me_."  
  
Mind hazed by need, Billie could only stare as those desperately-missed fingers wrapped around _Lars's_ cock, leaving his own body completely bereft. It took a long minute before the significance sank in and then he laughed, the sound rasping viciously.  
  
"You want me to beg?"  
  
The question emerged saturated in dark amusement and Billie reached for the drummer, pulling his torso down and capturing his mouth, tongue darting inside to twist and wriggle as he shifted to get better leverage. His hands dragged over the sweat-slicked back, feeling the muscles bunch exactly the way he had imagined, and then he held on to the slim waist as he tilted his hips and rubbed his ass teasingly against the hand holding the other man's erection.  
  
"You want to hear it, huh?" he breathed, trailing kisses across the stubbled jaw. "All right, you prick, I'll beg for you."  
  
Billie sucked on Lars's ear lobe and murmured directly into his ear. "I want you, Lars. I want you to pin me to this goddamned bed and fuck me till your ears bleed from the screaming." His tongue flickered out briefly. "I need it."  
  
He pulled back, needing also to see the drummer's reaction. " _Please_."  
  
Lars's eyes could not have been wider or brighter or more hungry. He swelled, shoulders hunching, breath hissing, low snarl unfurling in the back of his throat. Satisfaction and pleasure rippled down his spine, making him shudder again.  
  
" _Fuck_ ," he breathed. That felt good. That felt _fucking_ good. A filthy smirk eventually found its way to his lips. "You're good at this."  
  
He praised Billie's fiery obedience with some brief, mauling kisses, rocking his hips against the frontman's ass, before reaching out for a condom, tearing open the packet and sitting back to put it on with feverish speed. "Good thing you brought these – I don't know where you've been."  
  
Once ready, he raised himself up on his knees, lifting one of Billie's legs and draping it over his shoulder. Eyes dilated and heavy-lidded, he dragged his parted lips up the inside of a milky thigh, holding the other man's gaze.  
  
"You want me?" he murmured. "You want me inside you, fucking you so deep and so hard you can _taste_ me?"  
  
His eyes narrowed, and once again he sank his teeth into unmarked flesh, feeling the muscle tense hard under his mouth as Billie yelped. His voice emerged in a muffled snarl, tainted by blood that trickled dark down a pale leg.  
  
" _You'll get what I give you_."  
  
Pulling that leg, he raised Billie's ass from the bed, gripping his damaged hip and pushing hard into him with a cry.  
  
 _Like lighter fluid on a raging fire_ , Billie thought dazedly at Lars's response, thrilling to his violent motion. Every snarling, controlling word shot straight to his cock, even the taunt about his sexual past because it underscored that tonight, he _was_ behaving like a slut – and getting off on it. The utter hunger in the darkened gaze held him spellbound and made him over until he belonged to it.  
  
Pushed past all reason or restraint by the way the drummer's fingers had kept him hovering in the agony of denied release, the cruel teeth on his thigh had him jerking in pained arousal and then there was no more waiting, no more teasing as Lars drove his cock into Billie, balls-deep on the first thrust.  
  
He let out a keening wail, hip throbbing where strong fingers dug into flesh already bruised from that ruthless mouth. The prep had been thorough and then some, but nothing was enough to truly prime his body for this all-senses assault and he twisted needily, writhing under the punishing rhythm as sound spiralled upwards, spilling helplessly from his throat as Lars fucked him senseless.  
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , oh _God_. This was pleasure on a billion different levels. Not just the base sensation of thrusting in and out of Billie's ass, tight ring of muscle contracted hard around his cock, and the perverse slap-slap-slap of skin against skin, but the _control_. The mouthpiece of his band, he was given control in the way it was run and the music it made. With James, away from prying eyes and stage lights, he was given anything but control. So in Lars's mind, James would always, always have one up on him. Even now, with him gone, he was dangling the future of Metallica over the drummer's head, ready to snatch it away at any moment.  
  
Though he would never, ever freely admit it, though the thought wouldn't even enter his mind until this was over, the only reason he'd been in that bar and thusly the only reason he was here, fucking this scrawny little pop punk frontman into the ground, was _because of James_.  
  
Right at that second, the control he held over Billie was more important than anything.  
  
Nails cutting into Billie's leg and hip, he stared down at the squirming, whimpering, moaning creature beneath him, eyes ablaze. The tang of blood was still on his tongue and it was driving him absolutely crazy, force increasing with each brutal thrust, each vicious pound into that tight ass. Harsh noises ripped from him, rasping moans that increased in pitch as he bent over Billie, eyes on the face that twisted with ecstasy and pain, sweat dripping from his forehead and dark pleasure singing through his veins.  
  
Billie didn't know how much more he could take as Lars increased the pace and fury until Billie thought he might split in two from the strength of it, each forceful thrust jarring sensation through his entire body, presided over by those eyes. He knew his every reaction was being watched closely – studied even, and not with the loving care Mike would have shown, meant to ensure Billie's pleasure and to learn if it were something they might try again in the future. No, the drummer studied him for his own pleasure, and there _was_ no future here.  
  
But Mike had never used him like this, biting until blood streaked his inner thigh like a virgin girl, and maybe that was the problem. What had begun as a partnership had shifted over the years until it all fell on Billie's shoulders: the relationship, the band, all of it. Frontman and primary songwriter he might be, but they used to work as a collective and they just didn't anymore. The lukewarm reception for _Warning_ had been laid at Billie's feet; the release of _Shenanigans_ had been a delaying tactic to shut up Reprise and cover the fact that everything he wrote these days was shit. And then Mike had found out about the other men and the whole thing had started to unravel.  
  
So even as he neared the wall of what he could stand, Billie said nothing. He controlled nothing. Not the moans pouring out of him; not the way he arched into that hard body, silently pleading for more; and certainly not the man hell-bent on fucking him through the mattress. He didn't want to stop now – he _couldn't_ stop, even if it had been possible to do so. There was no give-and-take in this encounter, at least not in any balanced sense. Lars was simply taking and taking, and Billie Joe gladly gave it all up.  
  
Hands clawing for more, Lars reached down to pull Billie up first by his tie and then by his hair, fingers curling tight in short dark locks and nails digging into scalp, angling his head just the way he wanted. Bending the younger man almost in two, he demanded another kiss, tongue fucking into a pliant mouth, teeth jarring together and lips splitting again from the force. Expletives and moans bled out from what little space there was between their mouths, electric, hot air coursed through what little space there was between their damp bodies, and as Lars snapped his hips against Billie's ass with renewed brutality, pushing himself harder and harder, he pulled the other man's head back and buried his teeth into the exposed neck.  
  
Lapping up the blood that pooled at the collarbone, he grinned and stained Billie's chin as he spoke against it.  
  
"I hope he sees it," he murmured, hoarse and unsteady, spiteful glitter to his eyes as he pulled back. He gave no explanation. He didn't believe he had to.  
  
Lars licked his lips and relinquished his hold on the cropped hair to steady slender hips, falling into a slower but no less harsh rhythm and feeling something monumental begin to spiral in the pit of his stomach. He grinned terribly.  
  
Billie started to struggle as the forgotten tie yanked him upwards, cutting into the soft skin of his neck in a stranglehold. He had a moment of blind panic – _air, air, need air!_ – and then the fabric eased as big hands clamped onto his skull and the panic died in the vicious kiss, sending him careening back to blistering need.  
  
He cried out when teeth savaged his throat, feeling the wetness drip through the vibrations of his shout, and then he heard Lars hiss that malicious wish and it set something loose inside him. The idea of Mike seeing these wounds, understanding their origin without Billie saying a word, speared through him in a hot rush of vindictive glee. _You might be my best friend and longtime lover, but you're not my wife and you don't own me,_ he spat at the mental image. It escaped his scattered notice both that attempting to prove he couldn't be told what to do by submitting to Lars's control was ten million kinds of fucked up, and that it wasn't his underlying motivation, anyway. When he was capable of honesty with himself again, he might see the truth.  
  
Billie was here to be punished.  
  
Pressure built unbearably in his balls as the drummer slowed their speed but not the force, and when he was released to lie back his head lolled, arms sprawled over his head in total surrender. His hand twitched in a convulsive, suggestive motion and he wet his lips, the thick taste of copper flooding his mouth as his bottom lip opened again.  
  
"Lars," he whispered, throat throbbing as his Adam's apple bobbed with speech, feeling the wet smear across his chin and knowing they went together. "Lars, please."  
  
Lars watched the skin stretch and gleam in the poor light as Billie's arms fell boneless above his head, and he splayed a hand flat over the pale chest.  
  
"Fucking _what_?" he snapped, breathless. Not a call for clarification, a call for louder. For… " _More_."  
  
It was mostly bullshit – fuck, he wasn't far off now, not like he needed any more stimulation. But that inner asshole wanted to hear more. Needed to hear more. Needed to sap this one solitary opportunity of all its life so maybe, _maybe_ he'd be sated. For now.  
  
" _More_ ," he repeated needlessly, loving the word itself and the fact that that it – and he – would be obeyed.  
  
To give weight to his words, that splayed hand slid to brush maddeningly over Billie's heavy cock, bobbing obscenely as it was against its owner's stomach, sticky pre-come trailing in its wake. He continued to drive into the frontman, right to the hilt, grunting with the effort. A bright heat crawled under his skin, rushed through his veins and wrought tremors from his muscles. No, he wasn't far off now.  
  
Judging by the rasping desperation in Billie's voice and tremble of his flesh, neither was he.  
  
A mewling whine escaped at the teasing hand on his cock, much too light and uneven a touch to do more than stimulate and frustrate, and Billie's own hands fisted, snatching at the bedspread as his hips lifted in mute appeal.  
  
Only Lars wasn't looking for muteness; that was achingly clear in his ravenous expression. No, Billie would have to beg for his own release just like he'd had to beg for the drummer's cock. He'd known that in his bones, and the verbal demands Lars made now told him that that one short request wasn't going to be enough.  
  
Surprising strength lay in the notion. If he gave Lars what he wanted – gave over every last shred of control – he could also make the drummer lose it. There was power in that.  
  
"Should've known you'd want to hear it," he rasped, bloodied lip curling in a smirk at the flash of heat in those green eyes because the drummer knew Billie would do it. "Come closer."  
  
An eyebrow lifted but Lars bent forward a little, too caught up in their game not to, and Billie groaned at the new angle, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment before focusing on the older man, deliberately shutting off his inner filter and unleashing the imploring flood.  
  
"Please, Lars, I fucking need to come, I need it badly need it now, _Lars_!" Billie's voice rose sharply as the drummer's hand tightened involuntarily on him and he screamed out one last entreaty. "I need you PLEASE!"  
  
Lars sucked in a breath, inhaling Billie's wail and gulping it down like ambrosia, every word shooting down his spine and curling in his gut, and suddenly there was no time for triumphant gloating or taunting. There wasn't even a desire for it. There was only a surging swirl of heat, a desperate fumble for leverage, a callused hand fisting a weeping erection and he was _gone_.  
  
An ascending, hoarse wail that was not Billie's hit the ceiling, and Lars's rhythm fell by the wayside as his thrusts became erratic, coming fucking _hard_ and losing all sense of restraint. The frontman's name spilled past his lips over and over, one with every short sharp breath, keened and ecstatic. Through the waves crashing over him, he felt the body beneath him shuddering violently, followed by warmth over his hand, and fuck, wasn't all this just the most perfect, fucked up thing in the world?  
  
Billie screamed again when Lars finally jerked him off, wordlessly this time as his hips bucked up into the tight grip and then he was coming and coming hard, right alongside the explosion of heat in his ass and the lingering sound of the drummer's equally unsilent orgasm, his own name ringing in his ears.  
  
He bit back a smile as it crossed his mind that he'd half-expected to hear 'James's.  
  
Still-weak arms moved as Billie unclenched his fists and stroked his hands down Lars's sides, feeling the muscles tremble under his palms. His breathing gradually slowed, not sounding like a fucking emphysema patient anymore, and he simply lay there, touching softly. They'd been hammering at each other since almost the moment he'd sat down in the bar, what seemed like a hundred years ago, and now that the battle was over…well.  
  
He wasn't sure what came next. Would the drummer just leave? Was that what Billie wanted? No. He had no idea what he wanted, only that he was not quite ready to be alone.  
  
Falling forward and holding himself up on seemingly barely there arms, hands either side of Billie's waist, he waited for the last few tremors to leave him, eyes briefly settled for no discernable reason on the come-spattered stomach directly beneath him. After a few moments of dizzy recovery, eyes closed and lungs clamouring for air (hell, he _did_ have a few years on Billie), his brain ticked into life again. Hand coming to rest far more gently than before on Billie's hip, he withdrew from the younger man, giving him a heavy-lidded glance and sliding limply to the end of the bed like a jellyfish.   
  
They were done with each other, he felt no need to lace the aftermath with false loving cuddles and comforting kisses.  
  
Though questions and doubt rose in his mind far quicker without them.  
  
Feet on the floor, he let his head drop and tugged off the thoroughly used condom with a wet _snap_. Not seeing a trash basket in the immediate vicinity, he tied a knot in the thing and tossed it onto the floor a few feet away. Not his room, not his problem. For a while, he just sat and breathed, reality seeping slowly back into his mindset. Ugh, fucking reality. Reality wasn't allowed here, not in this beige carpeted square of the planet.  
  
A realisation made itself known in his head. Even if he had wanted to just fuck and run, he certainly didn't have the energy for it right now. A smaller one also timidly voiced itself – it felt weird not to be encircled by large, tattooed arms and lulled into a doze by a soothing low purr.  
  
Gosh, sobering up was just the funnest shit in the world.  
  
An inner fight between stubborn arrogance and exhaustion ensued, before he simply gave in and let himself flop back down onto the bed with a vaguely irritated sigh, eyes closing.  
  
The knot in Billie's stomach eased as Lars sprawled and gingerly he sat up. The first order of business was to get this goddamned tie off and he tugged at it, having difficulty getting it loose enough to slip over his head. Eventually it worked and, not having any tissues handy, he used it to wipe himself more or less clean and tossed the tie over near the little condom balloon, exhaustion forcing a giggle from him at the sight.  
  
He fucking _ached_ and he knew the drummer couldn't be in much better shape, for all his macho shit, so Billie slithered off the bed and pulled the covers down as best as he could with a body in the way, and moved around to stand in front of Lars.  
  
"Jesus fucking Christ, dude, get _in_ the bed and get some sleep. You're gonna be too stiff to move if you stay right there."  
  
Green eyes opened to shoot him a venomous look, the reddened mouth twisting in annoyance and Billie laughed, smirking. "I'm not having some prom date fantasy here, just being practical. I don't expect anything from you.  
  
"Well," he corrected himself, leaning forward far enough to tug lightly at the nipple ring he hadn't gotten to play with, "maybe another round, later."  
  
Billie flicked his eyes back up to the scowling face, seeing hints of confusion and possibly some interest. He didn't care if he was seen as a needy slut; fuck, it was way, way too late if that were going to bother him, and that gave him the freedom to make the offer. He locked eyes with Lars, smirk softening into a genuine smile, and held out a hand. "C'mon. Morning is soon enough to deal with reality."  
  
Lars bristled visibly at Billie's comments. He was in a weird place and didn't appreciate the amused tone. His narrowed eyes moved from Billie's face to his outstretched hand, an olive branch of sorts. With a snort, he rolled off the bed, ignoring the hand.  
  
"I have to piss," he grunted, walking to the bathroom.  
  
Cracking his neck and shrugging his shoulders as he stood at the toilet – some tic he'd developed – his mind fell into auto pilot for only a few seconds. The besweatered form of Phil appeared there, and, well, Lars got to thinking.  
  
 _Intimacy, huh?_  
  
The very first session with Phil, he'd talked almost immediately about intimacy. _What_ intimacy, as James had put it.  
  
It was slightly odd to Lars that, even after fucking good and hard, he felt weird about going to sleep in the same bed as Billie, felt wary about it, even. Maybe because, with someone he barely knew, that was a truer form of intimacy than sex – letting your guard down enough for those silences, that peace, and to not be afraid of it. Maybe because he was scared he'd feel something other than anger and bitterness.  
  
Fuck, he was starting to actually sound like Phil. Ugh. _Next thing I know, I'll be wanting to hug every fucker I meet._  
  
Well, fucking hell. Why not start with someone you barely know? Test the waters, and shit. Or maybe not read into every little thing you do, asshole.  
  
Ugh.  
  
Fuckin' whatever.  
  
After flushing and washing his hands and face, Lars stepped back out into the main room, drying his hands. He eyed Billie, who'd gotten into the bed and was sat there with this almost expectant look on his face. _Fucker._  
  
"I think I'd rather sleep on the floor than in with a guy covered in blood and man paste," he muttered snobbishly. _Airs and graces again. Shit._  
  
He dropped the towel to the floor and approached the bed, pausing for a small moment, before slipping in under the starchy motel covers.  
  
Billie snorted, eyebrows raising at the dig. "That's rich coming from the guy who put it there." He had the perverse urge to stay in the bed right the way he was, but while he didn't care about whatever spunk was left on him, he knew he needed to clean the bites. Slipping onto his feet in one smooth motion, he offered a brief explanation. "I wasn't going to stand around freezing, waiting my turn."  
  
Finishing up with the soap and water, he hissed as the cuts stung. Two parallel red lines ran across his throat right above the deepest bitemark, where the tie had dented the skin but not broken it. A shaky little laugh escaped as Billie surveyed the damage; he looked almost like he'd been in a fight. Until you caught sight of the bitemark about four inches below his balls. That was undeniably sexual and shaded everything else into its proper context.  
  
He took a deep breath before exiting the bathroom, needing to bolster himself a bit. He'd seen the wariness in Lars, and his snarkiness had proved that this – whatever this was – was still very much a confrontation. The problem with that was how Billie was feeling after seeing himself. He wasn't embarrassed, exactly, that he'd not only allowed but asked for and encouraged the rough treatment, but he felt raw around the edges knowing that, and ever so slightly fragile.  
  
Not the best combination to bring to bed with this man.  
  
He did, though, climbing back in while Lars feigned sleep. His body was far too tense for it to be real, in the same position as he'd sprawled in at the end of the bed, flat on his back with hands resting at his sides.  
  
Billie closed his eyes for a minute, debating with himself, and finally he slid right over and curled into the drummer, feeling the very much awake form stiffen.  
  
He flattened a palm on the furred chest, speaking quietly. "You may not, but I need this, Lars, so just…" Billie didn't know what else to say, and fell back on what had been working thus far this night. It wasn't like he had any pride left. "Please."  
  
Lars damn near froze as Billie curled against him, though he didn't know why he didn't see it coming – pretty much everything about this night, everything about this man had been unexpected. It was all radically different to what he was used to. (Even his wife was taller than him, Jesus…) His chest even sunk in a little as a tattooed hand came to rest on it, as if shrinking away, and he gave a warning growl. Then that little voice, that little plea, and that little asshole was making it hard not to care.  
  
 _Ah…fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fucking fuck shit balls fuck.  
  
May as well put away Lars of Metallica and let out Uli. Go the whole fuckin' touchy feely hog._  
  
He rolled his eyes at his own behaviour – hadn't he been the one disgusted by James and Dave's macho posturing back in the day? – and turned his body a little in towards Billie.  
  
"Um…" he began in a low voice, eyes looking anywhere but at the man next to him. His first 'um' of the night, quite a feat for him. "I really don't think I need to tell you this, cuz I'm sure you won't for your own safety, but…"  
  
After a pause, the drummer drew his arm up from between them to snake around Billie's shoulders, turning the younger man over to face away from him. Then, stoically, he pulled him up against his chest, draping an arm around a lean waist and bringing his legs up to tuck under a paler pair.  
  
Feeling his face burn just a bit, he finished his warning, stubbled chin grazing over Billie's shoulder blade as he mumbled against it.  
  
"…If you tell anybody, I'll fuckin' kill you."   
  
Billie emitted a squeak of surprise when he was turned over, not having any idea what Lars was on about, and then warmth contracted around him. His eyes opened wide.  
  
Spooned. He was being fucking _spooned_ by Lars Ulrich. Back-to-chest, hips-to-hips, knees-to-knees, arms around him and oh God it felt wonderful. It was exactly what he'd needed but had never expected to get and he took full advantage, snuggling right in so there was absolutely no space left between their skin.  
  
He grinned at the mumbled threat, feeling the heat backing the rough scratch of stubble, and ran his mouth along the inside of the bicep under his neck, pressing light kisses to the tender flesh.  
  
"Who'd believe me?"  
  
A quiet sigh of contentment left his lips and he closed his eyes, no longer fighting the urge to sleep. Billie didn't know what he'd find upon waking – or if Lars would even still be there – but right now, this was perfect.  
  
Lars muttered something else under his breath, but it was so quiet and muffled that even he wasn't sure what he'd said. He guessed that it was probably some long and colourful Danish curse, something about _sut_ ing his _nossesaft_ , or something equally childish. He shifted a little, feigning discomfort, before finally convincing himself to settle his ass down, muscles relaxing and breath evening out. He felt Billie's breath do the same, ghosting over his arm, and before too long heard him snoring softly. Taking advantage while the smartmouthed little bastard was asleep, and unable to help himself, he rubbed his cheek against Billie's shoulder, nuzzling very briefly and settling into stillness.  
  
 _Some fuckin' night,_ he thought wearily, letting his eyes slide shut.   
  
Morning rolled around with what seemed like obscene speed, and Lars found himself fully dressed, back and one foot leaning against the wall by the door, arms folded. He rested his head back, squinted past the curtains into the sluggish San Francisco day.  
  
Having awoken to a dull headache and cranky muscles, Lars had carefully untangled himself from around Billie – Jesus, had they been playing sleep-Twister, or something? – slipped into the bathroom to get himself into some semblance of order – using Billie's razor from his leather toiletry bag, among other things – and gotten dressed. As he did so, he would glance over to Billie's still slumbering form, sheets crumpled and low beneath his ribs. That angry wound, that savage bitemark at the base of his neck; flesh surrounding it still reddened, each individual tooth mark accentuated by a dark red scab. It demanded his attention. Each time he gave it, a wicked smile would curl his lips.  
  
He had intended on leaving.  
  
Instead, he stood by the door, trying not to scowl and bitch aloud about his aches. He stood and he waited.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't long before Billie stirred. Lars turned his head to watch him shift and grunt and scratch his chest, looking back to the sliver of daylight only when he opened his eyes. He gave Billie a few moments to let his brain shift into gear before he spoke.  
  
"'S too cold out," he said succinctly, the only reason he gave for standing there by the door ready to go, for not leaving.  
  
He gave no indication that he _had_ attempted to slip out silently around half an hour ago. He gave _absolutely_ no indication that the reason he hadn't was because out there was reality. Out there were his problems. He was quite happy not having any of that for a little while longer, thanksverymuch.  
  
The nasty little stab of guilt that hit his chest as his hand found the door handle hadn't helped either.  
  
Billie's standard grunt became a slight whine as he discovered that what he was scratching was itchy because it was healing, and his body didn't really appreciate having his fingernails dragged over it. He mumbled agreement about it being too cold, belatedly realising that the comment had come from across the room and Billie's lack of warmth was due to being in the bed alone.  
  
Still sleep-dazed, he sat up, grimacing as every little ache promptly made itself known. Closely followed by awareness of his morning erection and he groaned in annoyance. "Nothing like saying, 'Hi, would you like to shake my hand or suck my cock?' first thing in the morning."  
  
He rubbed his eyes and then froze as his brain _finally_ caught up and he comprehended that yes, indeed, the words had left his mouth. Too much to hope that Lars hadn't heard it, he supposed, figuring he was right when he moved his hands and saw the wicked amusement gleaming from green eyes, in a clean-shaven face no less. Jesus, he'd been passed out cold still and the drummer had already dressed and everything. _But didn't leave,_ a little voice gloated in his head. Billie pinched the bridge of his nose with another grimace and flopped back flat on the bed, tugging the covers over his head. A muffled remark emerged. "Oh fuck me, I am so not a morning person."  
  
Lars snorted, smirking.  
  
"Well, make up your mind, you want a blowjob or a good morning fuck?"  
  
He was…half joking.  
  
He peered out the window again, then looked to the alarm clock on the bedside table, then to the collection of lumps on the bed that wasn't quite Billie yet – including a very prominent one. Resisting the temptation to comment that the younger man looked like a teepee, and to sneak over there and give said teepee a teasing tug – Lars straightened up.  
  
"Well, there's a coffee place a block away," he muttered. "I'm sure you know where it is…"  
  
As his sentence petered out, he reached out, turned the handle, opened the door and was gone without another word.  
  
What he was sure Billie wouldn't notice, however, was that the room key that had ended up on the carpet during last night's fierce hedonism was gone too.  
  
He walked with a fair speed along to the coffee shop, not wishing to bring too much attention to himself at such a… _human_ hour, more concerned with recognising others than people recognising him. It was more likely that random fans would see him, but if friends recognised him, knowing that he didn't live around these parts and that he sure as hell wouldn't be here at this hour, ordering coffee, if he hadn't spent the night somewhere interesting.  
  
 _Fuck_ the questions that would create.   
  
He sidled up to the counter and ordered up two large white coffees. He grumbled inwardly that Billie would get what he got and like it.  
  
Billie Joe didn't get a chance to offer a cheeky, 'I'll take both,' before Lars had said something about coffee and left. Fucking hell, why did he always fall in with someone who actually functioned at this hour of the day?  
  
Reluctantly he stumbled into the bathroom and got ready to face daylight, then got dressed, hiking his jeans a bit higher than usual with the belt cinched tighter to compensate for the missing button. The last thing he needed was to wander around with his fly down all day, especially considering that he didn't have anything on underneath the denim.   
  
His shirt, well, it had to be buttoned up all the way, and even then the uppermost red line from the trashed tie was visible. Fading, and not that noticeable unless you were looking for it, but nothing would have disguised the bitemark. He touched it gently, feeling a light kick of pain at the pressure that fucked with his head a little.  
  
Shaking it off, Billie spent ten minutes fruitlessly searching for the goddamned key before concluding that the arrogant drummer must have taken it with him. _Why the fuck am I doing this again, trailing after him like some kind of schoolgirl with a crush?_  
  
His memory answered with painted images of pleasure, flashing black and white and blood red in rapid succession behind his eyelids; of losing himself so thoroughly that it had surprised him to hear his own name. He shivered as he stuffed his feet into his shoes and closed the door behind him.  
  
Catching sight of Lars with a second cup of coffee sat on the table in front of him, Billie's stomach lurched. _Dude, you are so playing with fire here._   
  
A smile teased his mouth as he pushed into the café, making his way to his designated chair. Yeah, he was still playing dangerously. As he nodded a wordless greeting and took a long swallow of heat, not really caring what was in it so long as it was caffeinated, he wondered if maybe he wasn't deliberately looking to get burned.  
  
Lars returned the nod, masking his surprise that Billie had actually followed him. He'd expected him to lay in that bed, maybe whine about the quick exit, maybe jerk off, and sit there being his not-morning self. The drummer couldn't help the smug smirk that pulled at his lips, or the fact that his eyes kept straying to the paling red mark poorly suffocated by the collar of Billie's shirt. _Tug on that invisible leash a little, maybe?_  
  
Once he had surmised that there was nobody he knew around, and precious little attention from anyone at all, save for the occasional second glance – _Maybe everyone's on auto-pilot at this hour,_ he thought – he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table.  
  
"So did you decide?" he asked airily, sipping at his coffee. At the quizzical look, he continued, face deadly serious. "Do you want a blowjob or a good morning fuck?" He pushed it further, brow creasing with a slight frown, voice rising to a dangerously audible level. "Should we make it a regular thing? Like an appointment? Or do you want it so you can call me up, and a half hour later I'm coming in your mouth?"  
  
A pause.  
  
"Seriously, what do you want out of this relationship?"  
  
The inner asshole hoped Billie didn't get his sense of humour.  
  
He tried not to choke on his coffee, eyes widening. _Relationship? What the fuck?_  
  
Then he took in just how serious Lars looked, forehead creased and mouth pinched in worry, and Billie had to conceal a smirk with a thoughtful expression as if he were pondering the question.  
  
Obviously Lars had never met Tré Cool. His own drummer constantly said outrageous things to him, most often in inappropriate locations, and usually with that same kind of too-serious appearance. He enjoyed pushing Billie and trying to fluster him, even though they'd never slept together. Billie Joe had learned the hard way to take it in stride.  
  
Come to think of it, Dave Grohl liked to pull shit on him, too. Maybe Billie had an invisible sign over his head that proclaimed, 'Provoke Me,' to drummers.  
  
He remained silent for a couple more minutes, sipping pensively. He'd realised while dressing that Lars's nipple ring wasn't the only thing he hadn't gotten to play with last night. He hadn't laid a finger on the other man's cock, either, kept too off-balance by the full-frontal attack to really notice at the time. But the idea of sliding onto his knees to suck Lars off, listening to those guttural moans…yeah. Oh, yeah.  
  
Billie put his coffee down, the pale shade of the remaining liquid clearly visible as he met green eyes with feigned gravity. And probably carnal interest, which wasn't contrived at all.  
  
"Got a cell phone?"  
  
"Sure, sure," Lars nodded, expression still serious, not missing a beat. He leaned back and dug in his pocket, throwing Billie a sly look as he pulled out his cell phone and pushed it across the table, leaning back. He slung an arm over the back of the chair and swirled his coffee, a bizarre echo of how the last evening had begun, inverted for daytime. Lowering his head, a languid heat sparked off in wickedly green eyes as a scenario undulated up into his mind.  
  
"There'll be times when you're at a restaurant and I'll wanna be under that table making you squirm," he said calmly, Billie's expression making his stomach turn inside out with devilish glee. "So put your number in there."  
  
When Billie reached for the phone, however, both men started as it went off. _Seek and Destroy_ squeaking tinnily as its ringer ( _not_ lame, he'd inwardly asserted), it took Lars a moment of blank staring to actually answer the thing, so surprised as he was by its timing. On dragging it back over and reading the name that flashed up, his expression grew genuinely serious. He flipped it open, pensiveness suddenly crawling in his stomach.  
  
"Hey Kirk." His eyes remained on the table, thumbnail absently skritching at his fingertip as he listened. "Right now? I'm in San Francisco." A smirk insisted on taking his lips as he looked up to Billie and continued. "Collaborating. No, I'm not fucking telling you who."  
  
Then his bandmate said something that made a stone drop in his stomach.  
  
" _Uh, when are you getting here? It's therapy today, Phil's right here next to me. You're on your way, right?_ "  
  
 _Boom_ , right back to reality with a few innocent questions.   
  
"Um, right. Yeah, gimme…" Once again, his eyes came up to meet Billie's, large and curious and almost constantly hinting at a darker temptation, and they stopped him in his verbal tracks. _Fucking hell._ "Listen, I'm…just go out and get some Mexican or something, I'll get there when I get there."  
  
" _Mexican? It's ten in the morning, you want our bowels to do the Macarena the whole day in HQ?_ "  
  
"That shit is so six years ago. Fine, I don't care, get some food and wait."  
  
" _You're not gonna be pissy if we get food without you?_ "  
  
" _No_ , fucker, would you…I have to go, okay? Sure. Okay, later."  
  
He clicked the phone shut and sighed, lips pursing in frustration. He couldn't help feeling that the dark cloud that had swathed him the previous night was right back in place. Fairly distracted, he replaced the phone in his pocket and muttered peevishly half to himself. "That was reality calling, said something about wanting to piss on our cornflakes."  
  
"I hate cornflakes."  
  
It slipped out; a conditioned response. Billie Joe's mother used to make this casserole with toasted cornflakes crumbled over it when he was young, and he'd hated it. Her poorly-masked disappointment whenever he'd started scraping off the topping had ensured that he ate it anyway, though, leaving him with a deep, irrational hatred of the cereal.   
  
Rice Krispies were okay. The noise was fun.  
  
 _Get a grip. You're not gonna starve, and you're not sitting here to have a homey little breakfast of cereal or anything else with this guy, anyway. You're here because…_ His inner monologue faltered and he canted his head to one side, looking directly at Lars, eyes conveying all the heat of what he couldn't let himself think.  
  
Of course, even if he refused to overtly acknowledge his reasons for being here, sat in a café too early drinking coffee with a man who'd spent the better part of the night fucking him, it didn't stop the flow of images of what the drummer had said about making Billie squirm. Didn't prevent him from imagining the blond head under _this_ table, doing wicked things right now, despite his true concern over the potential problem that had prompted the phone call. Whatever it was, it obviously wasn't an emergency, but Billie knew that bandmates had been one of the things they'd both tried to forget for a while, and he'd recognised the guitarist's name.  
  
"If there's somewhere you need to be, dude…" he let it trail off, not wanting to seem like he was attempting to give permission for Lars to leave. He didn't think that would go over well at all, especially since he could practically see the darkness resettling over the musician like gathering storm clouds, seething with potentially destructive energy.  
  
Part of Billie wanted to run for shelter, like any sensible person would.  
  
Most of him wanted the skies to open.  
  
Pulled out of his troubling thoughts by Billie's words, Lars shot the younger man an absolutely venomous look.  
  
"What, so you _want_ me to go, now?" he snapped. Only half regretting his thoughtless words, he looked away, sighing again more heavily. He began to bounce his leg up and down under the table, a common drummer habit brought on through either nervousness or boredom. No prizes for guessing which inspired it this time. "If I wanted to go, I'd fucking go."  
  
That…didn't come out as defiant, 'I-don't-need-your-fucking-consent' as it'd sounded in his head. It sounded more…petulant, 'I-wanna-stay-here-with-you-but-I-can't,

wah' which just made him want to kick his own testicles into his throat.

He wished right then that the cup in his hand held Irish coffee. Heavy on the Irish. In fact, fuck the coffee altogether, just an Irish.

He vainly fought off the scowl attempting to take possession of his brow, settling for slightly narrowed eyes focused on his coffee instead.

"I have to go to therapy," he told the drink, voice a taut growl. Bitter contempt curled his lip. "Me and what's left of Metallica, me and Kirk and our producer Bob, have to go into fucking therapy today." He didn't elaborate on exactly what would be discussed or what the main focus, the main reason for this therapy was; he thought the mere mention of it was pathetic enough. He raised his eyes.

Dammit, just _looking_ at Billie after that phone call set off this savage, heated lust that curled up his spine and made him arch. Made him want to crawl across the table right the fuck now and claw at his skin, tear at his flesh, fuck him 'til he was raw and on the brink of unconsciousness. Give them exactly what they _both_ fucking wanted, even now, even without alcohol coursing through their veins.

Lustrous green eyes radiated these darkest of wishes like a high beam on a clear night, volumes spoken in that gaze that his lips would probably never create.

What they both wanted, but right then, couldn't have.

Billie's exasperated amusement at the knee-jerk grumble to the exact impression he'd tried not to give died at Lars's grudging admission. Therapy. Wow, that was serious. More, it spoke of commitment and an unwavering loyalty to the band – to the idea of Metallica as a whole, functional entity – on an amazingly deep level. He wondered if the restless drummer even understood that part of it yet, or if Billie Joe had immediately latched onto it because of the shit his own band was currently mired in.

"That's big, Lars. It's – I think it's…um." He fumbled his words as the older man finally met his eyes, predatory need reaching across the table with greedy phantom fingers to deliver a punch of desire to Billie's chest. His breath stuttered slightly as his heart rate picked up speed.

No one had _ever_ looked at him like that. That gaze promised a deeper pleasure than he'd ever known, shaded the colour of bruises and with a metallic tang.

He shifted in his chair, intensely aware of his erection and hoping it didn't pop the buttonless fly on his jeans.

Billie tried speech again. "I think it's good, you know, that you're trying. That you're willing to try even when it gets weird, you know?" Great, his nervous verbal tic was showing up. "Adrienne and I went to couples counselling a few years ago, one of those twelve week programmes, you know, and it really helped. We've been totally solid since then." That was true even now, with her frustration over what was going on between him and Mike; it was a fight, and maybe a worse one than most, but it wasn't a threat to his marriage. Although the longer things dragged on in limbo like this, the more likely the possibility that it could be a threat became.

His eyes dropped to where Lars had a death grip on a now-empty cup, slowly squeezing it out of shape. "Did you want another coffee? Or, you know, food? There's a diner another half a block down." _Or would you like to use that key you stole and fulfill at least some of what's in your eyes?_

Lars seemed to swell, hackles rising. Voracious lust blended with an unshakeable burn for the dominance he'd been holding for all too brief a time; his nerves crackled, and Billie's words were like a red rag to a bull.

"Shut up," he snarled, voice low enough to avoid causing a scene. "It's weak. It's weak and stupid that we've become big dollar egomaniacs whose management have to drag a shrink in between people who are supposed to be friends, and I'm sure that's exactly what Jason thought before he left. I don't care how strong or good you think it is, _I can't fucking stand it that this is what we've become._ "

Resisting the urge to lash out and smack the empty cup across the room like some petulant child, he drew his hand through his hair and leaned towards Billie across the table, words spitting out of him like bullets.

"I don't want coffee. I got coffee because _you_ needed coffee. I don't want food, and right now I don't want that fucking life."

After a tense moment he stood up, chair scraping loud and shattering the strained air. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, nails digging into his palms to distract him from the nagging voices of guilt and responsibility that were slowly growing in the back of his head, and glared down at the younger man.

"You want another round? Let's go."

As wavering as his mind was, he was _not_ prepared to relinquish his dominance or his fantasies just yet.

_Hidden land mine, holy shit._ But the drummer had a tonne, and Billie seemed to manage to step on lots of them. He didn't get the macho shit. He never had. Attitude, yes; he had that in abundance, though it had faded a little of late as he'd aged, and there'd been less to react to or stand for – or against. And as he'd watched his kids grow and hoped he wouldn't be in for quite such a hell ride as he'd given his own mother when they hit puberty. But he didn't have a problem admitting that he needed people, and he didn't really care if anyone thought it made him look weak.

If he had, last night wouldn't have happened the way it had. Or possibly at all.

Billie rose silently, leaving the cups for the girl behind the counter to collect, and followed Lars onto the street. His hands slipped into his pockets as he walked, the bristling musician stalking along beside him, and a shiver of dark anticipation skittered down his spine at the absolute foulness of his companion's mood, and what that might mean behind closed doors.

Along with a faint finger of shame, the first he'd felt throughout this entire bizarre thing. Because that life that Lars didn't want right now, that therapy appointment that he hated like poison…they were important. They were critically important, and on some level Billie didn't like being what was holding the drummer from them. Even if he, too, wasn't quite ready to deal with reality yet.

As they neared his room, he jerked his head towards it. "I know you have the key, dude. Gonna open the door or pass it over?"

Lars pulled the key from his pocket, this time not even giving Billie the satisfaction of a glare. He swiped it viciously through the reader, a flash of the previous night sweeping past his eyelids – how this had the same basis, but none of the truly raw, animal energy. Like this was dragging it out, clinging to a necessary memory of blood and venom. Like it was…forced. Maybe it was the light of day, maybe it was the lack of alcohol. Maybe it was that goddamn, mother _fucking_ phonecall.

_Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them, fuck them, fuck them…_

The drummer's silent mantra rumbled on through his mind as he pushed and held the door open for Billie to enter. _Keep going, don't think, don't fuckin' think..._

The moment the door clicked shut, Lars latched onto the younger man, arm wrapping around his neck and pulling him into a demanding kiss. Other hand coming to press at the small of his back, the two of them staggering from the force of it.

_Don't think, don't think, don't fuckin'—_

_Seek and Destroy_ once again shrieked forth from the cell phone in Lars's pocket.

" _Fucking hell—_!" he rasped in exasperation, tearing away and stumbling back to fall against the door. Pulling out the phone, he only barely registered the name before answering it, needing an outlet for his anger now. " _Kirk_ , you fucking asshole, I'm fucking coming, alright, would you—"

Every single word died in his throat as Kirk interrupted him with three simple words.

" _James just called._ "

His face wiped clean, suddenly leaning against the door a lot heavier than before. He swallowed against a dry throat.

"He did? What did he say?"

" _I don't think we should really talk about it on the phone. I think you'd better come in._ "

For once in his life, Lars gave no argument.

"Right." He licked his lips and clicked the phone shut, hand tightening around it, absolutely reeling. _He called? He called HQ? If I'd been there…If I'd never come here…I might've talked to him…_

Shit…

He looked up and met Billie's eyes. For the first time since the night before, he looked…fragile.

"James…just called our headquarters," he said hoarsely.

One second they were pressed tight against each other, kissing in a conscious, desperate effort to shut out the world, and the next Billie was standing there catching his breath while the drummer changed before his eyes.

He knew. Even before the phone clicked shut, before Lars had raised his head with a painful vulnerability visible that he had not shown to Billie until then, he knew it was about James. There was a dull ache in his midsection that he hadn't been able to be enough, though that had never been and wasn't now what this was about. Billie didn't even understand that particular feeling but he acknowledged its existence.

And then he buried it.

Cautiously he moved closer, lust dying into concern for a man who looked ready to shatter. "Kirk didn't tell you anything, did he? If it had been really good news or really bad news, he would've said, Lars. It's obviously somewhere in between, 'James is dead,' and, 'James is coming home clean.'"

Billie'd had enough friends in and out of rehab to know how it felt to be on the sidelines, and some that he wished had eaten their pride and gotten into rehab because then they might still be around. It was a good thing – a great thing – that James was doing, and Lars had said last night that he was proud of him for it, but it was still hard on those left behind. He moved his hands towards the suddenly small-seeming musician, checking the automatic movement and dropping them helplessly at his sides, not knowing if that would be welcome.

He wasn't used to this, damn it. He was used to people who _touched_ , whose emotions weren't obscured behind all this shit. Who accepted hugs as easily as breathing. But he didn't know how to relate to Lars physically in a way that wasn't sexual and so he stood there, close but carefully outside of his personal space for once, trying to will comfort across the foot or so between them.

Eyes searching all over the carpet for the bits of his mind that just popped out of his head, for what to do, Lars spoke, mostly to himself.

"James called and I could've talked to him…if I'd been there, he might've talked to me…" He raised a hand and rubbed at the back of his neck, the utter shock of it fading in favour of vague disbelief and frustration. He frowned slightly. "Fuck…"

Looking up again, he pulled his thumb at the door.

"Um…I think I have to go." he murmured, the surprise apparent in his voice.

Wrapping a hand around the door handle was as far as he got before his mind finally caught up and processed everything. Before he actually thought about what he was doing, instead of falling back on blind instinct.

He couldn't make himself not care about James. He could block out thoughts of him, and he could temporarily dismiss Kirk and Bob and Phil, and he could ignore his responsibilities in the band, but the second he heard that James had made contact with the other three, it was like that damn leash that kept him coming back to his frontman had never slackened. Now, though, there was someone else in the picture – someone who'd barely blipped across Lars's radar before, but who now had intimate knowledge of his life, his problems…his body. Someone who knew how he sounded when he came.

Someone who screamed for him.

Someone who was watching him right now as he fled.

It…suddenly got complicated.

He turned back, placing a hand on Billie's shoulder. That was all he'd intended at first, but he found himself stepping closer and awkwardly wrapping an arm around the other man's shoulders, clinging, almost, though he'd never acknowledge it. He'd told himself repeatedly that it wasn't like there was any more boundaries between them, so why did this feel weird?

"Hey, um…" he began softly, chin resting on a slender shoulder. "If it all goes to hell, and I mean _all_ of it…"

He paused for a very long time, eyes dropping to the floor again as he thought. Then his hand slid to the juncture between Billie's neck and shoulder, the heel of his palm resting over that bitemark. As he murmured into Billie's ear, so low and soft it was barely audible, he gave the wound a squeeze.

"I'll come find you."

A moment, and he pulled back, eyeing the younger man as he held his palm open and pressed the card key into it. His heart skittered briefly, apprehensively, and he turned, opened the door and left. It was an aching, unsure, dazed drummer that scuffed down the street, trying to remember where in the unholy fuck he'd parked his car and wondering what news awaited him at HQ.

_Back to this fuckin' life._

Billie didn't know how long he stood there, staring at the backside of the door, feeling that awkward hug and listening to the mental echoes of the drummer's parting words; but he did finally turn around, surveying the room.

His eyes swept across the rumpled bed and it was as though the oxygen had been sucked out of the air, leaving him gasping like a landed fish. He couldn't stay here. He'd paid for the room through the weekend, needing somewhere to hide from both his families, to figure things out…but he could not stay in this room. Not now.

He began to grab his belongings, stuffing it all back into the duffel bag. When he was done, he took a look around to make sure he'd gotten everything, and spotted the forgotten tableau he'd left on top of the dresser.

Billie hadn't been sure he'd go into the café until the moment he saw Lars there with a second cup of coffee; hell, he hadn't been sure the drummer would even be there. But he'd known that Lars had taken the key card, and he'd remembered mocking words spoken amidst unbearable pleasure.

And so before leaving the room, he'd pulled a photo out of his wallet – just a computer printout, one he could ask his wife to reprint or spend a few hours swearing at the software to do it himself – and he'd written his name on it in the same disorderly scrawl he did for his fans. Except this autograph was in the ballpoint pen of an ordinary man, and it meandered across the bottom of a moment between Billie and Mike in the Armstrongs' backyard, and Mike was laughing.

Billie couldn't recall the last time he'd seen Mike laugh like that and the lack of memory ached. He touched the photo gently and then tucked it into his bag, along with the stained, ruined tie he'd used to anchor it on the dresser. He couldn't afford to have someone find it, especially as he had written his cell phone number on the back.

Operating on autopilot, he handed in the key card and threw his things in the car, climbing in and starting the engine. Only to let it die as he rested his head on the steering wheel, numb and raw all at the same time.

Lars had left to go to headquarters, wherever that was, and sit through a hated therapy appointment with the hope of talking to James, because he believed in his band. He believed in his band, and in his bandmates, and he loved James; and the drummer was honouring that by doing the best he could. By trying.

Billie could not do any less.

He flipped open his phone and hit two on the speed dial, heart thumping in double time as it rang.

" _Hey, Bill. What's up?_ "

He closed his eyes as Mike's voice washed over him. "You free this afternoon? I'm down in the city right now, but I'd like to come over, if that's okay."

" _Yeah, sure. I don't have Stella until the weekend so I'm all yours._ "

A few minutes later Billie was on the highway, hand pressing at the bitemark on his neck. The irony that he'd learned something about loyalty, about how to let go of himself and allow someone else to lead, by having a random one-night stand wasn't lost on him.

Traffic thinned as he got further out of San Francisco and he shifted gears, his hand going back to his throat afterwards. This time, sure fingers undid the top buttons, flattening out the collar to expose the truth. Billie would keep the secret of who, for Lars's sake, but Mike would know the rest. It would either destroy their relationship for good or give them a place to start to rebuild, and while he had no idea which it would be, he knew he owed his lover honesty above all else right now.

Time to face the music. And, maybe, find it again in the process.


End file.
